


Scarlet Gladiolus

by KHansen



Series: Blossoms in Their Bouquet [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood, Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Needles, PTSD, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Torture, alternating pov, lab experiments, unhealthy coping habits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23573890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: Jaskier is being held by a mysterious group of mages, of whom Fringilla Vigo is a part of, planning on ridding the Continent of all beings aside from humans by causing another Conjunction of the Spheres. He now must step into the role he ran from decades earlier and fulfill his duty as prince to protect the elves he’s imprisoned with and maybe even save the Continent.After Ciri has pledged her assistance to the elves of Dol Blathanna, Geralt and Yennefer discover Nilfgaard’s latest ploy to capture her and take control over the northern countries. With time running thin, Geralt needs to make a drastic decision, to find his bard or help Ciri protect the elves before Nilfgaard can kill them all.A direct sequel toSpring Crocuses.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Blossoms in Their Bouquet [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681690
Comments: 77
Kudos: 358





	1. Ancient Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a direct sequel to [Spring Crocuses](http://archiveofourown.com/works/23242366/chapters/55651663), please read that work first for a complete understanding of this story. Thank you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for having the patience to wait a few days for the sequel to Spring Crocuses, I needed some time to recover from writing it! I wrote a nice, long, first chapter just for you guys :)
> 
> Enjoy!

A gentle breeze rustles the faded red and orange leaves that still cling tightly to brittle branches on tall, proudly standing trees in the chilled autumn air. The sun shining overhead provides no warmth and the blue sky maintains a cool indifference to the rapidly dropping temperatures of the earth below it at the changing of the seasons. Large ears flick back and forth warily as a deer picks daintily through the layer of dried foliage on the forest floor, the doe’s eyes glancing around and her head on a swivel and, with a shake of her white striped tail, a fawn stumbles close behind. It lets out a small bleat which the mother silences by gently nudging the fawn with her nose, urging her fawn to be in front of her as they progress through the trees on the search for viable food. If they were more inclined towards human affairs and they strayed slightly closer to the town of Flotsam, they may have been able to hear the sudden hush that fell over the inn as its only occupants went from shouting to suddenly silent. Alas, deer have no tendencies to be interested in the lives of humans other than to be running as far from them as possible, and as such the mother and fawn continue on their delicate path, unwitting to the world shattering news that was just shared not more than a half a kilometer away.

Geralt recoils from Ciri’s touch as though her cold fingers against his jaw burn him, the skin around his eyes tightening as his lips turn down into a deep frown while he watches her with his mouth open and gaping, grasping for words that just won’t come. They’ve never come easy to him but now the river of language rushes too fast for him to plunge his hand in and grab even the smallest of sounds to string together, the wound that was Jaskier’s death he was so slowly and so carefully stitching up is now gaping raw and bloody and visible on his face and in his eyes.

“Geralt, he’s alive,” Ciri repeats softly, letting her hand drop and taking Letra’s in her other one. The bardling remains silent as she glances between the Witcher and her partner, unsure of her footing in the situation and opting to remain a silent observer.

Finally, Geralt finds himself able to grab a word, three letters wriggling like worms in his fingers and scratching his throat as he forces himself to speak, “ _ how _ ?” Ciri opens her mouth to explain but he raises a hand to silence her, instead reaching into his pocket and removing a tiny crystal vial filled with violet liquid. He crushes the vial in his palm and drops the shattered remains on the floor of the inn and a moment later the tell-tale  _ crack _ of a portal opening accompanied by the sharp sting of ozone in the air announces the arrival of Yennefer as the mage steps through the portal. Ciri glances down at her feet in shame at the sight of her tutor, Yennefer’s usually so neat and tidy presentation eschewed by the simple black chemise she has on and plain riding trousers, her raven locks tied back in a messy plait and bruised bags mar the witch’s pale skin beneath purple eyes.

“Explain,” Geralt grinds out, his teeth tightly grit together and his jaw locked in place. Yennefer does not speak, only looking around the room to take in the aura of emotions it contains and then gently prodding at the occupant’s recent memories to get the events that lead to her summoning. Her brow furrows and her lips press together tightly in a thin line as she frowns as well, crossing her arms over her chest and leveling an expectant look at Ciri and Letra.

“Letra and I…” Ciri starts slowly, sitting down on the edge of the bed with Letra beside her and Yennefer conjures two chairs for herself and Geralt to sit upon as they listen, “Well… it was my idea, really. I didn’t like seeing you in so much… so much pain, Geralt. I missed talking to you and hearing your voice, just as much as I missed Jaskier. It felt like I hadn’t just lost him.” She keeps her eyes on her knees as she speaks and Letra squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. 

“When I overheard you talking to Yen about the engraving on Jaskier’s pendant I thought… I thought it just  _ had _ to mean something. Elves don’t carve things for no reason, you know that. Every piece of art they make has magic in it, even the lute string Jaskier left behind… he said it came from his lute which was a gift from Filavandrel. An elven lute carved with elven runes and decorations, I could feel chaos resonating even in the one string, imagine how much was in the whole instrument,” Ciri’s voice drops to a whisper and she blinks before clearing her throat and shaking her head slightly to clear it.

“The forest will protect you when you need it,” she recites the translation of the engraving on the pendant that, even now, sits heavily in Geralt’s pocket, “between the engraving and Jaskier being an elven prince and him being able to do magic I thought… well, I thought his magic might be special, like mine is. So, I left to find him. Or if not Jaskier, at the very least I could find someone who would know whether he lives or not. I’m not stupid though, Geralt,” she looks up at him then with a sharp expression in her pale eyes, “I knew I had to stay low and to travel alone would be a fools errand. Which is why I got Letra to come with me. I was going to go to Cintra, back to where you were being kept and where we last knew Jaskier’s location and work my way from there. But Letra suggested we go elsewhere…”

_ “Welcome to Dol Blathanna,” Veynra sweeps her arm across the valley, her other hand holding the bridle of Lady Custard to guide the horse down the path to the city below.  _ Ciri and Letra are perched upon the horse’s back once more to make the descent more efficient. “When I heard you were looking for us I volunteered to be a lookout for you. I was looking more for the bardling you travel with though, if I’m to be honest. No one was quite sure what you look like, Princess.”

“How did you hear I was searching for you?” Ciri frowns, deeply troubled by this. If the elves had heard of her that means someone recognized her and was spreading the news of her whereabouts and her search for the elves and they could all be in danger right now.

Veynra glances up at them with a calming smile, “The forest speaks to us. The land talks just as much as the birds in the trees and squirrels in the bush. Some of us are able to speak with it as easily as I converse with you now.”

Ciri nods since she thinks she understands and she isn’t interested in asking more questions about it right now. Truth be told, her eyes are feeling heavier and her movements slower as they enter the city of Dol Blathanna and make their way towards the decrepit castle, the relief of finding the evellian sanctuary settling in and exhaustion coming to replace the stress she’s held tightly in her shoulders for months now. Letra hums softly behind her, rubbing Ciri’s shoulders with practiced ease as they trust Veynra to lead them somewhere safe, the stars twinkling overhead and the heavens seeming to whisper to them that they’re on the right path.

Ciri and Letra share a room within the castle, which they find isn’t completely dilapidated as the ground floor and sublevels are in perfect condition still. The room is warm and comfortable and they find themselves waking to the soft light of morning after a full night of sleep, feeling more rested than they have in a very long time. Veynra is waiting outside of their room in the hall when they emerge some time later and with the elven woman’s help they are given a tour of the castle, some breakfast, a tour of the city, and introductions to part of the Elven Counsel. A full introduction will wait for another day when Filavandrel, King of the Elves, has returned from his pilgrimage to another settlement and the full Counsel is ready to convene.

In the meantime, Ciri and Letra take courses at what can generously be called a college, learning about elvish history, culture, music, and life. They both find it incredibly interesting and what they learn in the two weeks isn’t nearly enough to satiate their appetite for academia; but it’s time for Ciri to meet with the Counsel.

Veynra leads Ciri and Letra to a chamber in the castle that she hadn’t allowed them entry to before, bowing deeply as she opens the door to allow them access. The humans glance at each other before Ciri leads the way in, her eyes adjusting to the transition from the brightly lit corridor to the low light of the windowless room. Sat around a half moon marble table are seven elves, four women and two men, all conversing softly as they look at an ancient map that’s been spread out on the tabletop. Ciri clears her throat softly and the talk dies down, the elves turning their attention to the two humans in their presence.

The elven man sitting in the center stands with a kind smile, his pale green eyes looking tired and older than the years his face portrays as he bows gently, “Princess Cirilla Riannon of Cintra and Bard-in-Training Letra of Lyria, it is an honor to meet you both. I am Filavandrel.”

“King of the elves,” Letra whispers, her dark eyes wide in shock before she dips into a deep curtsy, nudging Ciri to do the same. Ciri throws her a look that reads  _ I’m a princess I know to curtsy royalty _ as she also displays her respect, not dipping quite as far as her companion.

“And yourself, King Filavandrel,” Ciri murmurs before straightening up, “I’d like to thank you for your kindness, I’m sure having two humans in Dol Blathanna doesn’t bring the most ease to the worries of the elves.”

“Worry not,” Filavandrel waves his hand gently as he sits down, “the elves aren’t quite so delicate as we once were. Come, please, take a seat.” He indicates the two empty seats on the straight edge of the half moon table and they approach, quietly taking their seats. “What brings you to Dol Blathanna, Princess Cirilla?”

Ciri adjusts her weight in her seat as she thinks about the best way to phrase everything that’s happened without spending the next year telling them the story, her eyes passing over the map. It’s an extremely detailed map of the Continent, the cartographer that created it not sparing a single detail all the way down to the tiniest of hamlets scattered between countries. With a small gasp, Ciri watches as some of the ink on the map moves and swirls, bursts of color appearing before sinking back into the parchment and disappearing. Letra clears her throat pointedly and gently nudges Ciri’s foot, nodding her head at the elves as Ciri tears her gaze away from the map and turns it back to the Counsel and Filavandrel.

“Ahem,” Ciri’s pale cheeks flush slightly pink in embarrassment but Filavandrel’s kind smile never falters, “We were looking for someone. An elf.”

“Dol Blathanna is as good a place to start searching as anywhere,” he nods sagely and she catches a small glimmer of amusement in his patient eyes.

“Yes,” Ciri sits on her hands, glancing back down at the distraction on the tabletop before looking up again so she doesn’t get absorbed by it again, “I have reason to believe that you know this elf, King Filavandrel. As you might know, if what Veynra has told me is to be believed about trees talking, I traveled and trained with Geralt of Rivia for some time. Before me came another.”

Filavandrel’s eyebrows lift slightly in intrigue and he hums in acknowledgement, “Yes, I know who you speak of. Jaskier the bard, correct? I met him once, just after he started traveling with Geralt.”

“You gifted him your lute,” Ciri nods and wiggles her fingers under her thighs to make sure they don’t fall asleep, “because his was broken in the commotion.”

“Commotion, eh? That’s how he chose to describe it?” the King’s smile grows with mirth, “I seem to recall we were called an ‘army of elves’ belonging to a ‘silver tongued devil’.”

“Mister King Filavandrel Sir,” Letra says suddenly, her cheeks flushed dark as she rushes in to defend Jaskier’s bardic honor, “Surely you know that bards are storytellers? Spinsters who make colorful tapestries woven of words instead of silk. I’m certain Jaskier meant no harm in his retelling of the-”

Filavandrel laughs then, leaning back in his chair and placing a delicate hand on his chest while the Counsel smiles quietly, clearly very familiar with this story. Ciri and Letra glance at each other before looking back at the King as he grins and sits up again, “Letra, dear girl, I’m not upset. Jaskier requested my blessing before writing it. He explained his intentions to change public opinion of Witchers and how he may have to twist the events to shine a brighter light upon Geralt and cast us further into darkness for the time being. I agreed under the condition that he, someday, write songs about us to do the same for his people.”

“You  _ knew _ he was an elf?” Ciri’s eyes widen and she leans forward, splaying her fingers on the table as she grabs Filavandrel’s attention, “Even though he had a glamour on?”

“But of course,” the King smiles with a nod, “It was a powerful glamour, to be sure, he nearly had me fooled as well. But his Elder speech was flawless and I recognized the familiarity in his eyes as he watched us speak with Geralt. No human could ever learn Elder well enough to speak it that fluently unless it was their first language, and I highly doubted a perceived young noble would be bilingual in such a way.”

Ciri feels hope blossom in her chest, Filavandrel so far is on the same page as them so surely he can help them find Jaskier. “So you knew he was Prince Julian Pankratz?”

Filavandrel’s smile drops immediately, his eyes widening, “I beg your pardon?”

“Jaskier, he’s Prince Julian Alfred Pankratz,” Ciri leans further forward, nearly laying on the table at this point in her desperation to get information, “Everyone thought he was dead but he’s not, he’s alive! But Geralt and Yennefer think he’s dead now because he caused the castle of Cintra to collapse and he was trapped in it but he had a pendant that said ‘the forest will protect you when you need it’ that he gave to Geralt I think it was enchanted with a shield spell or something but that doesn’t matter because Jaskier has magic that I think would have protected him, wouldn’t it? So he’d be alive?”

The Counsel and King are all looking at her in complete silence with wide eyes before turning their attention to the map in front of them. After a few more moments, Filavandrel speaks, “When was this?”

“About six months ago,” she says quietly, sitting up again so she can glance at the map and then back up at the King.

“When we saw the spark,” he murmurs, “Princess Cirilla, I need you to make me a promise. That what you see on this map will  _ never _ leave this room, do you understand?”

“Yes,” she nods in confusion, “But why can’t it?”

“This map is the oldest map of the Continent, created by evellian mages of the bygone era,” Filavandrel explains, standing up so he can gesture more clearly to different parts of the map, “It was created almost immediately after the Conjunction of the Spheres, and tells the history of the Continent. If knowledge of the existence of this map were to get out... there's no telling who would try to abuse its power.” He waves his hand and the ink on the map moves rapidly until the Continent looks almost empty save for the black circles that appear and disappear, bursting forth on the parchment and then fading, “this is the Conjunction, when a force of magic brought the different realms together on the Continent and conjoined human, elf, and monster-kind. We call this magic, Ancient Chaos.” He taps the map and the black spheres turn golden around the edges, sparking like a firecracker.

“We believe it to be older than time itself,” Filavandrel continues, “and the force that caused the Conjunction in the first place. In the beginning, the only beings who could control Ancient Chaos were the original elves,” he moves his hand and the land changes on the map, civilizations popping up across the Continent and countries beginning to form, “but as we lived amongst the beings of the other Spheres, we lost our ability for Ancient Chaos and became attuned to the chaos specific to the earth. There were only a few elves remaining who could tap into Ancient Chaos and use it, and they became royalty, their ability to sense the ebb and flow of the Spheres giving them a responsibility to protect the other creatures of the Continent.”

“We began to… cross populate, if you will, with humans and it weakened the bonds with Ancient Chaos that the royals of ages past had, only a few lineages had the connection anymore. The Pankratz’s were one of them,” Filavandrel waves his hand and the map zooms through time, the ink twisting and writhing as the past displays itself before the humans. Bursts of color illuminate the parchment as wars are waged and the brilliant gold they saw before lessens and becomes more and more infrequent until they don’t see it at all anymore, “This is the Great Cleansing,” Filavandrel says quietly and Ciri watches in horror as parts of the map darken, like someone knocked a bottle of ink over onto the parchment and the darkness leeches throughout the Continent, snuffing out the colors until only a few remain, flaring up here and there. “Those are mages, human and elven alike. The evellian you can tell apart because the flares are more circular while the human mages are more jagged,” he points out a battle between two mages, one elven, a round green circle that pops and fades, and one human, a sharp edged red star-like shape that flares and shimmers, until the green stops appearing.

“Everytime magic is used, we see it on this map,” Filavandrel looks up at Ciri and Letra before directing their attention to Cintra, “Six months ago, we saw this.” The map doesn’t change much as it catches up to the present and Ciri watches where the King’s finger points, the very tip resting right where she knows the castle of Cintra existed, and suddenly a bright golden sphere flares up on the parchment, the first bit of gold they’ve seen in some time as history unfolded before their eyes.

“Jaskier,” Ciri whispers and Filavandrel nods.

“Indeed. At the time, we weren’t sure what it was. Like everyone else we, foolishly, believed all the royals of ages past to be dead,” Filavandrel draws their attention down to Nilfgaard, pointing to a place deep in the forest, “This, the Counsel saw a few weeks ago. Shortly after your arrival.” Ciri leans over to get a better look at the forest in Nilfgaard and her eyes widen as there’s another, smaller, flash of golden magic. She looks up at Filavandrel with hope and a bright smile.

“He’s alive.”

“So it appears,” he nods and sits down again, pushing his dark brown hair back off of his face. He looks tired again and Ciri frowns softly, her elation deflating as she takes in his exhaustion and defeated demeanor.

“King Filavandrel, what’s the matter? Aren’t you happy that Jaskier lives?” Ciri asks gently, her brows knit together in confusion. Wouldn’t he want this? She knows he’s not a king by choice, if there’s an elven prince still living then Jaskier would take the throne and relieve Filavandrel of his duties and guide the elves in his stead.

“Of course, my dear,” he smiles softly, “I’m ecstatic that Prince Julian is not dead as I previously thought. This can only mean good things for the elves when stepping back and looking at the big picture.”

Letra glances at Ciri and frowns softly, “Is there a problem with the small picture, your majesty?”

Filavandrel looks over at the bardling with mild surprise in his eyes as he chuckles quietly, “I’m afraid so. On my return travels I’ve learnt of Nilfgaard wanting to lay siege to the remnants of Dol Blathanna, claim the rest of the land from us and drive us from our home.”

“The rest?” Ciri’s frown deepens when Filavandrel nods.

“This valley is not all that Dol Blathanna used to be. Our lands used to stretch far into Aedirn, all the way north to the Lakseka River and west to the conjunction of the Pontar and Dyfne rivers. But over time and during the Great Cleansing we were forced back into this valley, until the capital was all that remained of our country.”

“Dol Blathanna was a  _ country _ ?” Letra whispers, horrified, “We were always told it was just elven territory, given freely when the humans in Aedirn required more farmland.”

Filavandrel’s smile turns wry and slightly bitter as he shakes his head, “Lies, I regret to inform you, are what humans base their knowledge of elven history on. I do hope that your time with us has changed some of your preconceived notions of elves.” He looks so sad as he says that and both girls nod vigorously, of course it has and of course they think and know better now, how could they have been so foolish before?

“King Filavandrel,” Ciri stands up, drawing herself to her full teenage height and trying to emanate as much royal grace and confidence as she can, “I would be honored to help you find other elves to help you defend Dol Blathanna from Nilfgaard. I’ve visited the Brokilon forests already, the dryads there know me and I have a friend who lives there, please let me assist you and the elves.”

_ Filavandrel looks up at her with a small smile, his soft green eyes shining in the dim light as he sits up straighter in his chair, “To accept the help of the lion cub of Cintra… The honor is all mine, Princess Cirilla.” _

As Ciri explains to them what all happens in Dol Blathanna she carefully leaves out the fact that she’s a part of an ancient prophecy to assist the elves in their plight against Nilfgaard and in finding sanctuary and long term peace. She also omits the map and where Jaskier is, paying special mind to her promise to Filavandrel of not sharing any information of what she saw in the Counsel chambers. However, she does explain Ancient Chaos to Geralt and Yennefer, telling them the story of the Conjunction of the Spheres and the resulting royalty of ages past, Jaskier being the last living member of. 

To their credit, Geralt and Yennefer remain silent during the entire story, just watching and listening as she recounts the past few months of her life to them. When she finishes, she falls silent and takes a deep breath before looking up at them, worrying her bottom lip gently between her teeth. Yennefer has a pinched expression, like she’s uncomfortable with the thought of a form of magic existing in the world that she didn’t previously know about, but otherwise is calm and does not seem overly upset by Ciri’s endeavors. Geralt, on the other hand… well, he looks like he’s swallowed a jar of live bees and just learnt that the lid wasn’t screwed on all the way so it could pop off at any time in his stomach, the combination of gut wrenching pain and confliction on his face is difficult to look at so Ciri averts her gaze politely.

“So,” Yennefer is the first to break the long silence, “Do you know where Jaskier might be, then?”

Ciri bites her lip but shakes her head, “Strictly speaking, I don’t know exactly where he is, no.” It’s not  _ technically _ a lie. She truly doesn’t know his exact location, just that he’s somewhere deep in Nilfgaard. Geralt purses his lips, like he recognizes her white lie, but strangely enough he doesn’t push the topic.

“What did you promise the elves you’d do again?” He sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly, leaning forward to lean his elbows on his knees as he slips Jaskier’s golden rose pendant out of his pocket almost subconsciously to turn it over in his hands.

“I would travel to Brokilon and try to convince the dryads to assist Filavandrel in protecting Dol Blathanna,” Ciri speaks softly but firmly, “And I intend to keep that promise.”

He hums in displeasure and keeps his eyes on the pendant, watching the way it catches the light of the fire and remains cool under his warm touch. Yennefer takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of her nose before nodding sharply, “Alright. Then we’ll set off in the morning.”

Ciri looks startled, glancing between the two adults, “We?”

“Of course, four months on your own is great practice, Cirilla,” Yennefer says dryly with a tight smile, “But for this you should have us with you. The path to Brokilon is dangerous, and the forest even more so. Yes, I know you’ve been there before but the dryads protected you then. They will not offer you the same courtesy this time.”

Ciri nods soberly but her pink lips curl into a happy smile as she squeezes Letra’s hand and glances over, pale blue eyes meeting dark brown ones. A silent look passes between them and Letra smiles softly, squeezing Ciri’s hand back. They’ll help the elves, they have to; after all, who are they to snub Destiny?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 1 of Scarlet Gladiolus! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	2. Stolen Elves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW Mentioned Starvation
> 
> Enjoy!

“And with a great shout to rival that of the beast’s, he leapt into the air, soaring like a silver eagle over top of the monster, and brought his silver sword down upon its neck! Slicing straight through it as though the hide and sinew of the bloedzuiger was nothing but a hunk of warmed butter. The beast screamed in agony as it was felled, its reign of terror upon the village finally brought to an end by the famed Witcher, the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier gesticulates the story with elaborate flourishes of his hands, the chains of his cuffs jingling and standing to project his voice in an attempt to entertain the elves locked away alongside him. The Elder he speaks in curls and flows through the darkness like smoke within a shining bubble, weaving the tale in such a way that those who weren’t present for the battle can see it just as well as if they were. Jaskier’s been trying to keep them distracted and entertained for days now with the various tales and conquests of Geralt’s that he was present for, and even embellishing a few that he wasn’t. 

His stories keep their minds off of the elves that are taken each day, marking the morning in Jaskier’s mind, his people crying and screaming and begging to not be dragged down the hall and out of the prison to wherever the guards are going. Everyday a silence will fall over the remaining elves before Jaskier will gather up his courage and sing a song or two and start his day of storytelling, a welcome distraction in the bleak reality that they face. He ends each day with his throat sore and scratchy, his voice nearly gone, but he perseveres to make sure that morale remains high as the elves that were stolen away in the morning are returned, beaten and bloodied and looking little more like corpses. But at least they are alive.

They never speak of what horrors they saw, what terrible things they were subjected to. More often than not, the stolen elves become mutes for a time as their own minds protect them from further harm by spoken words. Jaskier had tried, the first few days, to coax them into speaking to him, to tell him what had happened, but it had soon become apparent that their lips were sealed tighter than a crypt. So he had given up on trying to get them to speak and instead decided that distraction would be a better course of action, telling both true tales of Geralt’s exploits and weaving stories of grand adventurers, all in the hopes of encouraging the elves to retain a sliver of hope for their eventual escape. 

It’s difficult for him to tell if it’s worked, truth be told, some days it’s wonderful when he tells a story and the elves ask questions, participating with eagerness to find out how the adventure unfolds and whether Geralt successfully slays the beast or if he deigns the true monsters to be humans. Those stories seem to be the preferred favorites, with humans as the ultimate enemy, which mildly concerns Jaskier so he limits the number of those he tells. Other days it’s like performing to an empty theater, not an eye upon him or a peep out of his audience. He knows they’re listening but they pay him no mind, giving him no feedback and no assurance that his words, the only tool he has currently, are building the sense of camaraderie and hope that he wants them to.

“Will he come for us?” A child with fair hair and dark eyes, that Jaskier has learned is named Kleyn, asks softly, “Geralt of Rivia? Will he rescue us?”

Jaskier’s heart clenches painfully, not at the mention of Geralt or even the lack of faith in himself, but at the desperation in Kleyn’s small voice. He kneels down carefully, his leg healed now but improperly such that it causes him pain to move his knee, and places his hand on Kleyn’s thin shoulder, “I wish I could tell you yes, little one,” he says gently, rubbing his thumb soothingly against the child’s shirt, “I’m afraid that Geralt doesn’t know where we are. But I assure you, I’m doing everything I can to figure out a way to rescue us. I promise.”

“Prince Julian,” another child speaks up, Julietta with emerald green eyes and a long face, “Can you tell us the story of how you met Geralt and King Filavandrel, again? Please?”

He looks over at her and nods with a smile, running his hand over Kleyn’s hair before standing once more and clearing his tired throat, “At the time, I was a traveling bard. Not a particularly good one either, I’m afraid, despite having training at Oxenfurt. Classical training doesn’t give you the experience one needs to write songs that the people want to hear, and I thought myself quite funny to anger the patrons of the tavern of Posada by singing a rather unwise song about _abortions_ of all things. Truly, I was an idiot and a fool, I’d have had a calling as a court jester if you ask me…” The eyes of the elves remain on him as he recounts one of their favorite tales, his meeting of Geralt and the King of the Elves just outside of Posada. It’s a good combination of humor at his own expense for being a fool and of wisdom imparted upon him by both the Witcher and the King.

“Now, did Geralt like me immediately afterwards? I want to say yes, of course we were promptly bosom buddies and the bestest of friends. But realistically, no, rather I’m quite certain he hated me. But I traveled with him and became his personal barker and, just as I promised I would, his image improved and humans learned not to fear Witchers quite so much. That Geralt was there to help them and protect them from the monsters that lurked in the dark,” Jaskier’s voice is nearly gone as he wraps up the tale with a self-satisfied smile and a glance over the hundreds of pairs of eyes that watch him as he bows.

He jerks up again as the door to the hall bangs open, the guards returning with today’s stolen elves, and any sense of warmth and hope is sucked out of the darkness as quickly as blowing the flame of a candle out, leaving cold despair behind. The guards throw the elves back into their cells, and Jaskier frowns, drawing himself up tall and clasping his hands behind him as he watches the guards pass. The humans glance at him with a scowl and he levels them with a strong look of cold disappointment, having learned quickly as a bard that humans feel more shame when on the receiving end of disappointment. The guards look away and quickly leave, slamming the door shut again. 

Jaskier lets out a shaky sigh before moving to the edge of his cell, calling out to the elves in the cell where the stolen elves were returned, “How are they?”

“Alive, but not well, Prince Julian,” an elf named Heyren calls back, “They shake like leaves and are soaked through with their own blood.”

“Wrap them in the blankets, we will be cold for tonight so that they may recover,” he watches as the few blankets they have are passed through bars to be wrapped around the injured. The only blankets that remain where they are are the two that stay with the children, the younglings would die if they could not remain warm at night, not old enough to self-regulate their temperature within a demeritrium prison. Adult elves can keep themselves warm enough to not die, even if they will be shivering in the night, while surrounded by the magic dampening metal.

“Use the water you have to clean their hair and faces of blood, I will replenish it as needed,” he leans his forehead against the bars of the cell as he closes his eyes, reaching for that golden warmth in the world around him as he whispers the ancient spell. It’s muted and muffled by the cold metal that acts like a thick pool he has to swim through to reach the chaos, but he can get his hands through the sludge of demetritrium to dip his fingertips into the golden pool of ancient magic, summoning water into the bucket the elves use to clean the injured, keeping the source plentiful and clean. When they’re finished he lets go of the magic, the demeritrium shoving him back into his mortal form and he takes a gasping breath, sinking to his knees as he shakes from exertion. Sweat drips down his hot face and small hands flutter over his shoulders as the children rush to his side, comforting him as he tries to recover from his use of magic.

He’s slowly gotten better at using it, the demeritrium an ironic teacher that forces him to learn how to control the amount of chaos he grabs at a time so that he doesn’t kill himself when harnessing it. It doesn’t mean that it leaves him any less exhausted though with each small spell he forces through the barrier. Jaskier trembles as he sinks to the ground, turning to lean against the bars and let his hands rest in his lap. The children settle down alongside him, warming his rapidly cooling body with theirs and tucking their blankets around all of them as they make him the center of their nest. Saied burrows under his right arm and Kleyn under his left, the children linking hands over his middle and he chuckles softly with a small smile. He feels the hands of the elves in the cell behind him reaching for his hair, gently smoothing it and untangling it as they braid the long brown strands. A show of respect for their leader and a source of comfort for themselves. The elves do not feel envy for Jaskier, snuggled as he is with the children beneath blankets, they have quickly realized how much he does for them with his chaos in a place that disallows magic and his bright stories in the darkness. The least they can do is care for him as much as he does them.

He listens as the heartbeats of elves slow and breathing deepens around him, the children relaxing against him as they fall asleep and the elves in the cages drift off as well. Jaskier remains awake, though, as he usually does; this is the only time he gets to be alone with his thoughts and feelings.

He feels his face crumple as he lets his head hang down, squeezing his eyes tightly shut to try and hold back the burning tears that threaten to overflow and run down his cheeks. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, how could he? He’s not cut out for this, he’s not meant to be a leader, a prince, a _king_. Even as a child he preferred to be outside, dancing and singing and playing with the birds that fluttered in the trees and the animals that leapt across the land and the fish that swam in the sea that kissed the beaches of Letenhyve. He was never any good at sitting still and listening, his skills in being logical and thoughtful were lacking, his strengths lay not in reason and strategy but in rhyme and sonnets. How on earth can he possibly be a good prince to these people?

But at the same time, how can he not? Their options are, admittedly, extremely limited when it comes to leadership. He had tried asking, quietly, if anyone had stepped up to the position before Jaskier’s arrival and to his private dismay no one had. They were just existing in their miserable prison, waiting for their inevitable deaths to take them to the afterlife as no one knew they were there, no one would come to rescue them, so why hold on to hope? Jaskier had felt so deeply for the elves that admitted their defeat to him that he couldn’t turn a blind eye to this, he couldn’t be a coward again, he had made them a promise and he intends to keep it. He’s terrified of what this means, floundering in the dark with no knowledge of what he’s meant to be doing or if he’s doing the right thing as he tries his best to stay calm and confident on behalf of the elves. They’re looking to him for guidance, which is a frightening thing to think about as Jaskier was never much of a morally straight man, and he can not let them down. 

He’s not ready for this, he knows he’s not. He lacks knowledge and training and experience and guidance of his own. The only thing he has to lead him are his memories of his parents and his brief interaction with Filavandrel, and he will try his very best to emulate them all into his closest approximation of what a prince could be. Maybe if he pretends long enough, it will eventually feel real.

He wonders where Geralt is. He hopes that the Witcher is still with Yennefer and Cirilla, healing and recovering from his ordeal in Cintra, but knowing his White Wolf the chances of that are slim. Maybe he thinks Jaskier is dead. The thought is a recurring one in Jaskier’s mind, a sad and sobering idea that plucks at his heartstrings and creates a bitter taste in his mouth. It wouldn’t be the worst, he supposes, if Geralt thought he was dead. If he was presumed to be deceased from the collapse of the castle on top of him. Truthfully, he’s not sure how he survived it himself, that spot in his memory being auspiciously blank. If Geralt thinks Jaskier is dead, then at least Jaskier knows for certain that Geralt won’t try to find him and walk straight to these crazed mages. He’d be safe with Yennefer and Ciri, and maybe it’s a little wicked of him but Jaskier can’t stop himself from hoping they'll all be a little bit sad if they think he’s dead.

He’s not sure how long he’s been here, how much time has passed since he rescued Geralt with Yennefer’s help, long enough for broken bones to heal at the very least. His knee is crooked now and he can’t walk without a permanent limp and pain, but things could be worse. He could be _actually_ dead, not just presumed dead. That’s something. He’s not being tortured, so that’s something else. Granted he’s being slowly starved, like all the other elves, his bones visible where they previously weren’t, his ribs sticking out enough that he thinks he could play them like a xylophone if he were so inclined. But he needs to look at the bright side, focus on his silver lining: he’s not sick, and he’s not dead, and he’s only in moderate chronic pain, so things could be worse.

Jaskier doesn’t notice his exhaustion has pulled him into a dreamless sleep until he’s being rudely awoken by the door to the prison banging open as it does every morning, the guards arriving to steal the elves for the day. With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself up and starts to calm the trembling children, whispering in Elder to ease their worries while the guards prowl the aisle between cells. Jaskier’s back is turned when he hears the door to the chosen cell unlock and swing open, his hand smoothing over Saied’s hair when her eyes flick to something behind him and widen in terror.

Then tight hands are on his arms and he’s being hoisted up, yanked away from the children who scream and cry out and grab at his clothes while he’s pulled from them and out of the cell. The other elves yell out as well, the din growing in power and volume as they revolt against the guards taking their prince away and Jaskier frowns as he tries to think quickly, not wanting anyone to get hurt while hands reach through bars and grab and swipe at the guards. He sees one of the guards start to unsheath a sword and icy fear strikes Jaskier’s heart so he opens his mouth and shouts out in his native tongue, “Stop! They will hurt you, please, let them take me! I will be okay, I promise. I promise!”

The outrage simmers down and he watches helplessly as he is marched from the prison, turning back to look at the elves and see their faces paled with despair as they clutch at the bars of their cells with white knuckles. 

He takes a deep breath and pushes out a whisper tinged with gold that he knows will reach the ears of each and every elf in the prison, “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 2 of Scarlet Gladiolus, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	3. Seeing Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Sometimes, Geralt really hates being a Witcher.

This thought comes to his mind as he hikes through a midnight forest just outside of Wyzima, a large town that some could even classify as a small city in Temeria along the Ismena River. The frigid waters come from the Mahakam Mountains, the snow at the very peaks still melting to flow through the Ismena’s winding path to connect to the Pontar and eventually make its way out to sea. He sighs and pushes some wayward strands of his white hair off of his face as he glances at the moon’s shattered reflection in the river’s turbulent surface as it rushes over hidden rapids alongside his path. His destination is a bend in the Ismena that widens into a lake where, allegedly, fishermen have been disappearing for the past few months. 

Geralt wasn’t going to get involved, not by deciding against taking the job but by being ignorant of the entire situation. If he had his way they would have never entered the city limits of Wyzima at all, but Yennefer had turned to guide her horse into the city without a word to any of them and Ciri followed with a wary glance back at Geralt. He had begrudgingly followed as well as Yennefer stabled their horses and went into the local tavern with the teenagers hot on her heels. They hadn’t even sat down yet when Geralt was approached by a starvation-thinned woman who reeked of fear and anxiety, the sour scent like that of curdled milk. 

_ “You are a Witcher,”  _ she had said, and it hadn’t been a question. Her fear wasn’t directed at him as her sunken eyes glanced out the windows of the tavern at the setting sun, “ _ Please, we have one hundred and fifty gold for you if you can kill the monster that takes our fishermen.” _ Despite his desire to be in and out of Wyzima as quickly and painlessly as possible, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Three hundred gold is a steep price for the head of a monster after all. 

The woman had explained that for three months now, every time a fishing boat tried to cast off and float downriver into Ismena Lake they never returned. The game has gone and the hunters are out of work, the livestock have perished as the crops are failing from poisoned soil. The fish in the lake are the only source of food left to carry them through winter, but if their fishermen cannot safely do their jobs then the entire town will surely starve.

When Geralt asked for a description of the monster the woman hadn’t been able to provide much of one, the only survivor had gone mad from seeing his friends and brothers torn to shreds and described the creature as ‘a massive scaled beast that must have had two heads to shred a man with such ferocity’. This was enough of a description for him, however, and he deemed it an amphisbaena, a water snake with a head at either end of its long body. They have the crushing power of a hundred boa constrictors and the fangs in their mouths rival those of the meanest of bruxa. Their ability to slip through deep waters and blend in with the grasses on the bottoms of dark lakes makes them a formidable foe, but not one that Geralt hasn’t taken on and defeated before.

He finds himself second guessing his decision now, though, as he trumps through the woods with his breath puffing faintly in front of his face, autumn leaves crunching beneath his heavy footfalls. He could probably take more care to be quiet and silent, but Geralt is rather annoyed right now and the sounds of the dead foliage is satisfying as it snaps under his boots. He’s not a fan of the cold, which is part of why he holes up in Kaer Morhen in the winter with the other Witchers. Other reasons include tradition, a lack of work, safety in numbers, and a respite from human-kind. Although the last half dozen stays at the keep he’s found himself longing for the company of another, especially the year that Eskel did not join them. He had apparently found work that kept him busy the entire year and was unwilling to share what that work was, citing that he was sworn to secrecy by his employer for his employer’s safety. Naturally, Lambert and Geralt poked fun at him and assumed he was working as a noble’s personal monster hunter.

Geralt wouldn’t mind being a personal monster hunter to a noble, so long as it was a very specific noble whose name starts with Julian and ends with Alfred Pankratz.

His fingers twitch for the pendant in his pocket but he leaves it where it is, for now. It’s best that his hands stay free as he glances at the water again, noting that the surface has become smooth and the river has widened into a mouth that leads into Ismena Lake. Geralt hides amongst the tree line as he looks over the moonlit lake, the water glittering like a thousand diamonds as it ripples slightly from the crisp breeze that flutters across the surface of the lake. 

Geralt drops his hand to the small pouch tied to his belt, fingering the potions inside of it and listening to the glass vials quietly chink against one another. He’s brought with him Cat, Swallow, Killer Whale, and White Honey. Cat, to see in darkness, Swallow, for extended vitality, Killer Whale, for increased lung capacity, and White Honey to neutralize the potions after the battle before they can poison him if he doesn’t metabolize them in the fight. He pulls out Cat and downs the potion, grimacing at the bitter taste and closing his eyes tightly for a moment before he opens them again, able to see across the entire lake as though it were the middle of a sunny day. 

His eyes scan the surface of the water for either the remnants of fishing boats or any sort of movement before his attention is grabbed by a flicker of motion at the corner of his vision. Geralt turns his black eyes towards the movement, his skin paler than death, and he watches as the water ripples outwards from a central point. He starts to move along the edge of the woods towards the source of the disturbance when he hears the whispers of a song on the wind, pausing and tilting his head to listen. 

The music has no words, no lyrics or instruments or even a melody really. It’s just sound from a voice that jumps randomly in pitch up and down and Geralt frowns, the woman in Wyzima didn’t mention any singing.

He then hears another faint sound, the rattling gasp of someone struggling to breathe and his frown deepens as he follows this new sound. He can address the singing, which is gone now anyway, later. If someone survived one of the fishing trips, Geralt needs to talk to them.

He creeps through the woods, taking care to be as silent as the grave, while the gasps for air get louder the closer Geralt gets to whoever it is. He can hear small whimpers of pain and keening between each labored breath and something about the noises sounds familiar, which is not something Geralt thinks is a particularly good thing. There’s a dip at the edge of the lake, a small ledge formed from erosion of wind and water brushing against clay based soil and roots, so Geralt leaves the tree line and shuffles forward to peek over the ledge.

His blood runs cold.

Jaskier, just skin and bones and draped in blood stained silks with a crown of thorns perched on his head and cutting into his skin, is lying half submerged in the lake. His hands grasp weakly at his chest and throat and his blue eyes are unfocused as they gaze up at the starry night sky above. Dark blood drips from the corners of his mouth and, to Geralt’s horror, he’s impaled on a gnarled root growing out of the ground, the end of it darkened with Jaskier’s blood as it emerges from the bard’s stomach. His chest heaves with every wet breath he fights for, his lungs slowly filling with blood as he drowns on land.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s gruff voice breaks as he jumps down the ledge to the soft soil below, dropping to his knees beside his friend, “Jaskier, can you hear me?”

Jaskier’s eyes roll around for a moment before they land on Geralt, his pupils blown out until his blue irises are a thin ring and the whites of his eyes are almost black with blood, “G’ralt?” Crimson bubbles up between his lips as Jaskier tries to speak.

“Hey, hey, it’s me,” Geralt huffs and reaches out, his hands hovering as he’s not sure where he can, or even should, touch. He settles on gently cupping Jaskier’s face in one hand, running his pinky along Jaskier’s pointed ear and the elf shudders before whimpering from the pain, tears running down his face.

“Hurts.”

“I know, I’m so sorry,” Geralt sees Jaskier reach for him and takes the offered hand in his free one. Jaskier’s skin is so unnaturally cold against his own. “I’m so sorry, Jask. I-I don’t know what to do. What happened? Can you talk?”

Jaskier nods and opens his mouth with a grimace, “Got away.”

“I see that, but how? The whole castle collapsed,” Geralt doesn’t like looking a gift horse in the mouth but this seems… something about all of this seems off. He rubs his thumb lightly along the dark purple bags under Jaskier’s eyes, “Yen said that no one could have survived that.”

“Can’t… get rid’f me… tha’ eas’ly,” Jaskier grins a crimson smile at him, his teeth stained with his own blood and Geralt nearly recoils from the sight. This is one of his nightmares come to life.

“Jask,” Geralt feels his heart breaking all over again as he glances down at the tree root and then back up at his friend’s face, “You’re not gonna make it…”

Jaskier follows Geralt’s line of sight to the root jutting out of his abdoment and lets his head fall back with a sigh, “Ah, well. Knew… it was come’n… one’a these days.”

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt squeezes the slender hand in his as he bows his head, feeling tears prick at his eyes, “If there was something I could do… anything…”

“Come with me.”

Geralt’s head snaps up again, eyes wide as he looks at Jaskier in confusion, “What?”

The bard looks up at him with scared eyes as he speaks in a small voice, “Don’t you want to be with me, Geralt?” His speech is suddenly clear of blood and Geralt’s brow knits together as he starts to put the pieces of the puzzle together while Jaskier pleads to him, “I don’t want to be left behind again. Not a third time. Just go in the water with me, Geralt, and we’ll be together. Forever.”

Geralt scowls and rips his hand away as he staggers back, the illusion falling apart as he recognizes its presence and hears the singing once more. He sees red as the illusory Jaskier begs for Geralt to not leave him behind, even as he dissolves into silt and water and washes back into the lake. His rage at being taken advantage of, at having one of the few people he loves used against him, fuels him as he draws his silver sword and hunts for the siren. He follows its song around the lake until he spots it, not too far from where Geralt was tricked into grieving his best friend yet again, hidden amongst the reeds and tree roots. 

The siren hasn’t noticed him yet, still crooning with its eyes closed as green gills flex along its neck beneath the surface of the water. Geralt raises his sword and the siren opens its black eyes and screams, the song turning into a deafening weapon that would send a human to an early grave. But Geralt’s no human, and though his ears ring and start to bleed he doesn’t stumble as he swings his sword down, clipping the siren’s shoulder as it dives out of the way. 

Red blood tinged with shimmering silver clouds the water of the lake as the siren makes its escape, leaving a trail behind it that Geralt tracks with ease as he pops the cork off of Killer Whale, downs the potion while he sheathes his sword, and dives into the water after the creature. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears as he swims beneath the surface, the water muffling any sounds aside from his own heartbeat and the huffing shrieks of the siren as he chases it. It may be faster than him in the water, but he can outlast it, his body made for slow endurance while the siren can only swim sprints for so long before tiring. Geralt surfaces only when his lungs start to burn, gulping another deep breath and submerging himself once more as he searches for the cloud of blood.

There, disappearing into a grove of rocks that form a cave beneath the water, Geralt spots the glimmer of the green scales on the siren’s tail. He dives deeper, withdrawing his silver dagger from his belt to prepare for the fight in close quarters. He reaches his pale hand out in front of him to feel for the edge of the cave, even with Cat his eyes struggle to see this deep below the surface of the water, and sharp talons rake down his arm, tearing the skin of his wrist open as the siren hisses at him. He scowls and grabs the arm of the siren before it can be withdrawn back into the cave again, yanking the creature free of its sanctuary and burying his dagger in its abdomen. The siren screams and writhes against him, talons lashing out and cutting where they can reach. He fights the instinct to close his eyes as the sound barrages his battered eardrums while he forces the knife to cut sideways through the siren’s gut, entrails spilling out into the water that’s darkening with the beast’s blood. 

The siren wails and slows its thrashing as it weakens in his grip, finally becoming still in death. Geralt kicks upwards, following the bubbles that he slowly releases from his mouth as he drags the dead weight of the siren behind him. With a loud gasp of air, he breaches the surface of the water, blinking against it and shaking his head to get it out of his eyes while he treads in place for a few minutes to catch his breath and recover from the underwater battle. He really hates having to hold his breath when fighting, it makes him feel slower as his body rations the amount of oxygen his muscles can use.

With a heavy sigh, Geralt swims to the lake’s edge once more, dragging the corpse of the siren out so that he can behead it and also clean its tail of its valuable scales. An alleged aphrodisiac, he’ll be able to fetch a handsome price for the siren scales at the apothecary in Wyzima. Scales pocketed and bag in hand, Geralt begins the trek back to the town, keeping his sensitive eyes downcast as he waits to see if he’ll metabolize the potions before his return to civilization or if he’ll need to take White Honey as well.

As he walks he lets his mind wander, and wander it does, his thoughts skipping straight back to the traumatizing illusion the siren had made him see. They’re supposed to sing so that people see their deepest desires which, in turn, lure their prey into the water to be feasted upon by the siren. Why then was Geralt’s deepest desire to see an injured Jaskier? He hadn’t felt any sort of relief at the sight of the elven bard. He frowns more, that’s not exactly true though, is it? He had been relieved to see that Jaskier was alive-ish, but the dread that flooded Geralt when he realized that the fake Jaskier was as good as dead… it wasn’t a feeling he cared to experience again.

So, why then, was it his deepest desire?

Geralt remains deep in thought as he mulls over the possibilities, disliking that there’s something about himself that he doesn’t know. He’s always been confident in who he is and his innate knowledge of himself, to have something existing in his subconscious that he doesn’t understand makes him extremely uncomfortable. 

He doesn’t get to linger much longer on it as Wyzima comes into view through the trees and Geralt slows, pulling out the vial of White Honey and taking the potion to neutralize the other two that poison his veins. He waits until he feels the toxicity of his blood return to normal and he’s certain his eyes are no longer pitch black before continuing past the town limits, heading for the tavern where he took the contract in the first place so that he may receive his coin.

“Here,” he grunts, dropping the dripping and bloodied bag with the head of the siren in it onto the table that the woman sits alone at. She looks up in surprise and reaches forward, carefully pulling open the bag and then recoiling in horror at the gruesome sight inside.

“What  _ is _ that?” She whispers, her eyes darting up to glance at Geralt and then back to the severed head on her table.

“Siren.”

She looks at it a bit longer before nodding and reaching a trembling hand into her pocket, withdrawing a coin purse and handing it to Geralt, “Thank you, Witcher. Our fishermen should be able to go in peace now and we will not starve.”

He hums noncommittally in response as he opens the purse, quickly counting the coin to ensure he isn’t being shorted. When he’s certain that there’s the promised one hundred and fifty gold pieces contained within the cloth he closes it again and nods to the woman, making his leave to the door. He fully intends to go straight to the inn where he knows Yennefer, Ciri, and Letra have already gotten rooms so that he may take a scalding bath.

“Witcher,” she grabs his attention as he reaches for the handle of the tavern door. He pauses and glances over his shoulder at her questioningly, raising a single eyebrow. “Some time ago… you were looking for a man, a bard. Are you still searching for him?” Geralt narrows his eyes slightly and turns, grunting an affirmative as he sits down across from her. She looks startled by this action but quickly recovers, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “I know not how accurate this information is, but a mage was in Wyzima a fortnight ago. He was looking for the mage that you were accompanying earlier, Yennefer of Vengerburg.”

Geralt’s jaw tightens, if someone is looking for Yennefer it can mean there’s eyes on them, “Do you know who it was?”

The woman shakes her head, “I’m afraid not. I wasn’t here when the mage visited. However, I was told that the mage, once drunk, spoke of an  _ elf _ who used to be a bard that is imprisoned within Nilfgaard’s borders.” Geralt’s stomach drops and his heart sinks, if that’s Jaskier then he’ll certainly require rescuing. And the Witcher can’t exactly waltz into the country of Nilfgaard with the Princess of Cintra and Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg with him either. No, Jaskier will have to wait for him, and Geralt will have to pray to whatever gods are listening that his bard will still be breathing when he’s finally able to stage a rescue mission.

“Thank you,” he murmurs and the woman nods, sitting back again and glancing at the head with poorly disguised disgust as she tries to figure out what to do with it. Geralt presses his lips together and takes pity on her, standing and picking up the bag to dispose of the head for her. She looks up in surprise and then a kind smile spreads across her face as she nods her head at him in thanks.

“Many blessings to you, Geralt of Rivia. May your sword swing true and your destiny be favorable.”

He hums and nods as he leaves the tavern, tossing the bloody bag into the Ismena River on his way to the inn. With the knowledge that Jaskier is in Nilfgaard he finds his mind settled somewhat and he’s able to focus on the task at hand, following Ciri to Brokilon Forest to rally an army of dryads. Yeah, he’s not sure how confident he is in this plan either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 3 of Scarlet Gladiolus! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	4. Golden Hurricane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW Graphic Depictions of Torture  
> CW Needles
> 
> Damn, it took me a time to get this chapter up. My apologies, friends, I've been having a time wrestling with my big D(epression).
> 
> Enjoy!

Jaskier is careful to keep a complete neutral expression on his face as he’s lead through the labyrinth of corridors that make up the prison, remaining silent as he tries to memorize every twist and turn and back track the guards make so that the eventual escape he leads the elves in will be eased without the worry of getting lost. Unfortunately for him, however, they seem to be going deeper under the earth, the temperature dropping further and the walls becoming damp and sticky with lichen and moss, water trickling in thin rivulets down the cracked stone from underground reservoirs that the fortress runs below. Their footsteps echo down the halls, Jaskier’s boot heels still retaining a sharp click on the rock while the guard’s armor clunks loudly on either side of him, making his sensitive ears twitch and ring as it becomes the only sound he can hear. It’s extremely disorienting and makes him lose track of the path they’re taking as a headache begins to develop just behind his left temple from the constant racket.

The guards show no mercy if he stumbles due to his crooked knee, just yanking him forward until he can get his feet under him again and continue limping at the pace they set with pain radiating up and down his right leg that throbs with every heavy beat of his heart. The torches along the walls of the corridor are too bright and he flinches away from them, closing his eyes as they intensify his headache and he doesn’t see the uneven flagstone on the ground, the tip of his boot catching on it and sending him tripping into the guard holding his right arm as his knee twists painfully. Jaskier curses as the guard catches him with an angry scowl.

“You piece of shit,” the guard growls and sinks a fist into his stomach, making Jaskier double over as the air is forced out of his lungs. He wheezes for a breath and moves his head just in time to avoid getting a face full of metal as the guard brings his armored knee up in an attempt to break Jaskier’s nose. Fueled by sudden adrenaline, Jaskier grabs the sword on the hip of the guard that punched him, unsheathing it as he jumps away from the armored men. He hisses from the weight on his delicate knee but keeps his eyes open, wielding the sword between both hands as the shackles around his wrists don’t allow him to separate his arms far enough to hold the weapon in just one.

The other guard has his sword drawn as well and swings it in an upwards arc towards Jaskier, attempting to get him off balanced, but he’s prepared for this and darts to the side, parrying the blade with the loud sound of the clashing of metal. The other guard has drawn a dagger and lunges at the elf, aiming for his exposed left side.  _ “You exposed your side again.” _ Eskel’s amused voice comes to mind and Jaskier spins, bringing his elbow down to protect his side as he swings the sword into the hip of the guard before dropping to a crouch and kicking his foot out to sweep the guard off of his own, knocking the dagger free from the guard’s hand. 

Jaskier dives for the dagger, dropping the sword and rolling to avoid the clumsy swing of the other guard as his hands close around the hilt of the smaller blade. It’ll be easier to wield in his chained state and as he comes out of his roll near the guard he knocked to the ground he stabs the dagger into the hip of the guard where the armor doesn’t cover to allow movement, the guard screaming in pain and Jaskier giving himself leverage as he plants the heel of his boot on the bottom of the guard’s chin and kicks out. There’s a sickening crack as the guard’s jaw shatters and his head snaps back, the flimsy helmet doing little to stop the crunch of the guard’s skull. 

He then turns his attention to the guard holding the sword, the weapon already swinging down towards him again and he yanks the dagger free of the bloodied flesh of the dead guard on the ground and rolls away. He’s not quite fast enough and the sword slashes across his shoulder and back, tearing open his skin and hot blood spilling forth. The guard lets out a triumphant shout that cuts off with a gurgle as he drops his sword, his hands flying up to the dagger protruding from his throat. Jaskier watches as the other guard drops to the ground dead before letting his head fall back on the floor and staring at the dirt ceiling for an indeterminate amount of time while his heart settles and he regains control over his breathing. Seven people.

“Fuck,” he murmurs before closing his eyes tightly and taking a deep breath. The four bandits, the General of the Nilfgaardian army, and now these two guards. He suddenly remembers that he doesn’t know how many people may have been in the Cintran castle when he brought it down, how many people he may have killed with that act alone, and he rolls onto his hands and knees as bile rises in his throat and he retches painfully. With no food in his stomach, all that emerges is a thin acid that burns his throat and nose and makes his eyes water, “ _ Fuck _ .” 

Jaskier coughs and spits a few times to try and rid his mouth of the sour taste of vomit as much as he can before he gets to his feet again, pulling the dagger out of the throat of the guard and glancing up and down the corridor. There are numerous doors along it, but he doesn’t want to test his luck by accidentally opening one to find another orgy led by a crazy mage with dreams of harnessing a djinn’s power so he decides to start walking back the way they came. At least, he thinks this is the way they came. The long hall looks exactly the same in both directions and he got a bit turned around in the scuffle that left him splattered with blood and in pain. He needs to bind his back somehow before he bleeds out, unless it’s not a very deep cut, he genuinely can’t tell without a mirror and he doesn’t want to stick his dirty, bloodied fingers where infection can set in.

“Dammit,” he grumbles and eyes the doors on either side of him. He has several options: A) He starts trying doors at random and hopes he doesn’t find something unsavory before he finds something he can use as a makeshift bandage; B) He tries to use his magic to heal himself even though he’s never done healing magic before and he’s not entirely certain that’s something he can do with or without the demeritrium cuffs on his wrists; or C) he lets himself bleed and hopes it’s a shallow wound that will clot on its own and he won’t die of blood loss.

He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms as he sighs and starts walking, deciding to go with option C for now and see if he starts feeling woozy like the last time he lost too much blood. He’d been on a hunt for a warg and it ended up leading him straight into a pack of foglets, nasty little beasts and dangerous to fight alone when not a Witcher. He’d been successful at dispatching them, of course, Jaskier’s stupidly determined and refuses to know the meaning of the word failure, but it had led to him dragging himself to the nearest healer and hoping they would help an elf as he collapsed on their doorstep. He had to count his lucky stars that day as the healer was a half-elf himself and gave Jaskier a discounted rate in exchange for stories of the old times.

Lost in thought, Jaskier doesn’t notice when the corridor widens into a grand hall until he hears voices echoing down it and his head snaps up, internally swearing as his eyes dart around the hall for a place to hide. There are thin pillars along the edges of the hall, holding up a curved ceiling painted with faded splashes of color. The windows in the hall are shattered and Jaskier can see dense trees through them, vines creeping through the broken glass and moss gathering in the corners of the abandoned keep. He hurries to one of the pillars, pressing himself behind it and digging the chains of the shackles into his stomach to stop them from clinking as he shakes slightly. He takes very shallow, controlled breaths as the voices approach so that he’s completely silent, praying that he’s invisible as well.

“...ought to be down there by now, I’ll be annoyed if they aren’t,” he hears Agella’s sultry voice grow clearer as she approaches, her heels clicking on the stone floor, “I told them to have him in the lab by eight o’clock.” He can imagine the pinched expression of the sour mage, her mustard yellow eyes narrowed and her thin lips pressed together tightly.

“I’m sure they’ve done their job, Agella,” Hartel’s deeper, timid voice joins the conversation. Jaskier assumes the man pushes his thin hair on his balding head back off of his red face, his beady eyes darting around like they do whenever Jaskier sees him, “Demetrius hired the best.”

“You say that, and yet Fringilla has fired at least four of them in the past week,” Agella huffs a sharp laugh, the sound grating on Jaskier’s nerves and making him grit his teeth. Their footsteps begin to pass his hiding spot and he stops breathing entirely, biting the inside of his lip as he waits.

Hartel hums and slows down for a moment and Jaskier swears his heart stops as he listens to the mage hesitate and Agella’s footsteps get farther away. Hartel then hurries after the woman, leaving Jaskier to wait until he’s sure the hall is empty again before he sighs in relief and pokes his head out from around the pillar.

And finds himself face to face with Demetrius.

Jaskier flinches back with a gasp and flips the dagger over in his hand to lash out at the mage, only to find himself unable to move. Demetrius’ dark lips spread into a wicked grin and he steps up to Jaskier, his presence large and commanding despite his shorter stature, and plucks the bloodied dagger from Jaskier’s frozen hands.

“I thought I’d heard a commotion down below,” he murmurs as he tosses the dagger away. Jaskier is unable to move his eyes or else he would look away from the mage in front of him as Demetrius' hand raises to Jaskier’s forehead and the world goes black.

Jaskier awakens with a pounding headache and the acrid smell of chaos permeating his nose, the air thick with herbs and heavy with steam that makes him light headed and dizzy even before he’s opened his eyes. He hears buzzing around him and it takes him a few moments, minutes?, to realize that it’s voices speaking, the words becoming clearer as he becomes more lucid. He’s lying on a hard surface, his neck cradled uncomfortably by something that digs into his shoulders, and his hands and feet are restrained if the weights around his wrists and ankles are any indication. With more effort than he would have expected, Jaskier wrenches his eyes open to look around.

The room he’s in is of a medium size, large enough for the surface he’s laying on to be centered with space to walk around it and have tables against the walls. A blazing inferno crackles in a hearth that’s set deep in the stone and a cauldron hangs over the flames; he can hear something boiling within it, the heady scents of the herbs coming from the cooking concoction. He shivers slightly, even though the room is hot enough to break a sweat, as his eyes slide over the knives and tools that are laid upon a small table beside the one he’s restrained on, the silver of the blades shining in the light of the fire. Vials of potions and herbs and powders are on one of the tables pushed against the wall, bottles of various sizes containing an array of colorful liquids that Jaskier is sure have no diabolical purpose, none whatsoever, which is precisely why he’s chained to a table with no shirt on. 

Agella stands by the fire, stirring whatever is bubbling in the cauldron and humming pleasantly to herself. Jaskier’s stomach turns when he recognizes the tune as one of his own, a song about Geralt freeing a village from the clutches of an incubus, not one of his best but a fan favorite all the same. Hartel and Demetrius are sat at an empty table, quills scratching over notebooks as they speak quietly to each other about the weather and their weekend plans, it’s oddly domestic and makes Jaskier feel even more ill. This is all just a job to them, they feel no remorse for the pain and torment they put the elves through. His eyes land on the final occupant of the room, bright blue meeting dark brown as a smile splits the scarred but familiar face.

Fringilla Vigo looks grotesquely giddy at the sight of Jaskier contained the way that he is, her face torn to shreds and stitched back together from the castle collapsing on top of her and he can’t stop the pride that swells in his chest that he did that. He hurt the horrible mage as much as she’s hurt countless others. Ordinarily he’d be concerned by this random bout of bloodlust, but he can’t find it in himself to care that he wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse if Fringilla were to drop dead right now.

“Julian,” she purrs and walks to his side, running her fingers down his face and along his jaw. He tries to move away from her but her other hand aggressively grabs his hair and holds his head in place. Her touch is rough, not just from more scarring but from how she digs her nails into his scalp and into the skin under his chin as she jerks his head to force him to look at her, “Do you like what you see? I could feel it, that little spark of happiness you felt when you saw my face looking like this. Knowing that  _ you _ did this to me. Tell me, Julian, how does it feel to be a monster?”

He scowls at her and opens his mouth to speak when a vial is shoved between his lips, something thick and viscous pouring into his mouth. Jaskier goes to spit it out but Agella covers his mouth and nose with her hand, stopping him from being able to breathe either until he swallows. He holds out for as long as he can, his cheeks turning red and then purple as his lungs burn painfully and spasm in his chest, screaming for oxygen while black spots dance across his vision and finally, he involuntarily swallows the bitter substance. Agella releases his face and he gasps for air, his chest heaving and his body shuddering as he blinks the spots away and looks from Fringilla to Agella and back again.

“What the fuck was that?” He demands, his hands curling into fists and pulling at the cuffs on his wrists, “What did you make me drink?”

“A simple relaxant, Julian,” Fringilla runs her fingers through his hair, “After all, how else are we to get you to use your magic around us?”

“What?” His brow knits together in confusion as he looks at her, “Pardon me for asking, but what the  _ fuck _ would you want me to do that for? If you care to recall, the last time I did that I brought a castle down on your head.”

“Yes,” she smiles dryly, “nearly killing the both of us and killing dozens of others in the process. Was it worth it, Julian? Just to save one measly Witcher?”

“Absolutely,” he answers immediately, glaring at her as defiantly as one can while chained to a table and at the mercy of four mages, “I’d do it a hundred times over for him.”

She hums and smiles sweetly at him, the expression sickening and wrong on her face, “How  _ loyal _ of you. Like a dog. The Witcher’s very own pomeranian. Or maybe you’re more like a poodle, you do have a little bit of bite to you, after all.” Jaskier can feel the potion taking effect as his shoulders relax into the table and his eyelids droop, but he refuses to give her the satisfaction of having any power over him so he purses his lips together and sucks in his cheeks against his teeth before spitting at her, the glob of saliva landing squarely on her cheek.

Fringilla’s smile drops and turns into an enraged snarl, “Prepare the injections.” Her voice is cold as ice and Jaskier’s blood runs cold. Injections? What are they going to inject him with? She must see the question in his eyes and the snarl turns into a cruel grin, “Julian, Julian, Julian. You didn’t think you’d get to keep all that Ancient Chaos to yourself, did you? Didn’t your dear dead mummy and daddy ever teach you to share?” 

Agella brings over a tray lined with syringes, each one with a different potion in it varying in color from slate gray to pitch black to blood red, setting the tray beside the one with the knives and medical tools on it. “What are you going to do? What are those?” Jaskier asks, internally flinching from the tremble in his voice that gives away his fear.

“I told you,  _ my prince _ ,” the honorific drips with sarcasm and Jaskier tears his gaze away from the syringes to look up at Fringilla again, “We’re going to take some of that very powerful magic that only you get to use. It’s rather unfair that the universe has determined that the only person worthy enough to use Ancient Chaos is a filthy little nothing elf who barely knows how to use it himself.”

“Ancient Chaos, you keep saying that, what is it?” Maybe if he keeps her talking he can figure out a way out of this, his fingers plucking at the edges of the cuffs.

Fringilla cocks her head curiously at him and then laughs, “You really don’t know? My, my, how  _ interesting!  _ I can’t believe that the last of the evellian royals of ages past didn’t think to tell their only son about the magic that controls the universe.”

“The what? Magic- Universe-  _ What _ ?” She’s insane. She has to be. Jaskier doesn’t have that kind of power, he’s able to do little party tricks and tap into the natural chaos that surrounds all of them. It was a learned behavior anyway, not something he could ever do naturally like the other elven mages. “None of that makes any sense! You’ve lost a marble, Fringilla. In fact, I think you’ve lost the entire set, maybe you should take up knucklebones instead, I’ve heard it’s quite a fun little game.”

“You jest, but the magic you use is different,” Fringilla sniffs and picks up the syringe with the black potion in it, tapping it gently with her knuckle, “It’s not something anyone can just  _ use _ . It must be learned, and even then only a select few people can use it in its natural form. You’re the last one, Julian, so forgive me if I’m reluctant to let you… hold back.”

“Hold back? Hold back h-” before he can finish his question Fringilla has stabbed the syringe into his chest, depressing the plunger and injecting him with the black potion. It takes effect immediately, his eyes squeezing shut as ice spreads through his veins, feeling like he’s being cut up from the inside out. His veins turn black beneath his pale skin as the potion spreads throughout his body and his back arches off of the table, his mouth dropping open and nothing comes out at first while his hands curl into fists. There’s total silence in the room. And then he starts to scream.

With each injection the pain is different but just as intense. The red potion turns his blood to fire, the gray potion makes him feel like he’s going to explode, a green potion causes him to feel like vines are growing under his skin, an orange potion shrivels him like he’s laying under the intense heat of the sun and every organ in his body has been replaced by ants. He screams and screams until his throat is raw and still he screams, blood turning his teeth red, staining his lips and dripping from his mouth. 

With every new torture, every new agony and new pain, he feels the warmth of that ocean of gold pushing at the edges of his consciousness. The magic he’s become so familiar with just begging for him to release it to protect him, to save him from this torment. But he refuses to give in, desperately holding it back, because that’s just what they want from him. Fringilla admitted it herself. They want him to lose control and use this magic that apparently only he can use, and he’ll be damned if they’re successful. So he holds it in, hugging it tight to his chest and reigning it back like a damned golden hurricane trying to break free from his tight grip, and he screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 4 of Scarlet Gladiolus! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	5. The Dryads of Brokilon Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An update? You bet your ass. Scarlet Gladiolus is back baby, but it's not going to be on an update schedule for now. Eventually, I'll try to put it on a weekly update schedule, as I do all my fics.
> 
> Thank you for waiting patiently, and please enjoy!
> 
> CW: Animal Death (none of our beloved horses)

A side effect of the ascension of mages from Aretuza and Ban Ard is losing the ability to dream. Not so figuratively, sorceresses can still imagine gruesome curses when ailing their foes and sorcerers have no problem coming up with new and unusual ways to coax willing partners into their beds. It’s very literal, as magic rarely is, that when a mage ascends they will no longer be able to dream. 

So it’s extremely odd to Yennefer when she goes to sleep on the soft mattress of her luxurious bed, listening to the soft snores of Geralt in another bed within her tent and the quiet breaths of Ciri and Letra from the bed on her other side, and she seems to “wake up” in a stormy meadow. She climbs to her feet and looks around with eyes narrowed in suspicion at the waist high grasses that swirl and rustle as the wind whips through the thin, chartreuse stalks. The dark clouds overhead are backlit by the sun, casting golden light along the curves of the flocculent pall, like someone has gilded the edges of the clouds with glimmering gold leaf. It looks almost too perfect.

At the far edges of the large meadow are trees that wave and shudder at the force of the buffeting gale that has yet to touch Yennefer, the forest itself shrouded in shadows and hiding any creatures or secrets living within it. Clearly this is a dream, but that’s impossible because she’s Yennefer of Vengerberg, an ascended sorceress of Aretuza, which means that this is not just a dream. This is either a prophecy or a vision.

To find the subject of this vision Yennefer assumes she’ll need to find the center of the storm, beginning to wander in a gradual spiral outward from where she awoke in the wavering grasses. Dandelion tufts whip by her face, followed closely by the delicate blossoms of Baby’s Breath. Hawthorn blooms light upon her skirt as she parts the grasses, the miniscule white petals sticking to the velvet of her dress and tangling in her hair. Acacia and angrec flowers lift from the grasses, joining the flurry that dances on the wind almost ethereally across the top of the meadow and around the sorceress, the wind starting to tease her hair.

She follows that direction and more and more flowers are lifted out of the meadow from stalks that cannot be hidden amongst the grass for the flowers are from every climate, every country. There’s bellflowers and blackthorns and bluebells, chrysanthemum and clove and crocus, gardenia and geranium, moonflower and morning glory, pear blossom and peony, yarrow and yiang-yiang and zinnia. All of these blossoms take flight and swirling around her, skimming the tops of the meadow grasses, tangling in her hair before whisking upwards into the sky. Columns of these plumes of flowers populate the meadow and the flowers change as she continues moving forward.

Anemone and begonia, fern and forget-me-not and foxglove, hyssop and purple hyacinth, lobelia and marigold and mint, narcissus and rue, rhododendron and witch hazel and wormwood. She recognizes the meanings of some of the flowers and realizes that this vision has been warning her since the flowers started appearing and flowing up into the golden touched clouds. 

She turns her gaze to the sky, her crimson lips tugging downward into a frown, and tries to feel what kind of magic is in this vision. The moment she extends her chaos towards it, her magic recoils and rebounds back into her and she just gets the impression of overwhelming gold. Simultaneously, a blood-curdling scream cuts through the howling winds and echoes across the meadow.

Yennefer breaks into a sprint in the direction of the scream, hiking her skirts up to hold the hem at her knees as she searches the grasses. That was a distinctly  _ person _ scream, one of a humanoid that’s not unrelated to mankind. She needs to find them, demand answers, find out what’s going on. Her knees crash into something, sending her sprawling forward over the top of the whimpering obstacle, and she huffs as she quickly gets to her feet to keep looking. Wait, whimpering obstacle?

Her head whips back around and the violet eyes of the sorceress widen as she realizes she tripped over the huddled down body of an elf, his spine pressing out in distinct ridges against the thin fabric of his white shirt and his long fingers buried in the even longer hair on the back of his head. His elbows are pulled up around his face and he’s rocking himself back and forth gently from where he’s hunkered down.

“Are you…?” She kneels down beside him, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder.

One of his hands shoots out and grabs her wrist tightly, the other dropping to the dirt as he curls his fingers into the dry soil and gasps out a ragged, “Yennefer?”

She frowns and opens her mouth to ask who he is when he lifts his head, her words dying on her tongue as she looks at a man she wasn’t sure she’d ever get to see again. His normally sun-kissed and freckled skin is ashen and there are gruesome fractures across his forehead and cheeks, spider webbing away from his eyes. Golden chaos completely covers his eyes, and it swirls writhes beneath the surface of his skin. It seeps out of the fissures that mar his skin as though he’s a porcelain doll that’s been cracked, blood and tears matching the golden gilding of the clouds.

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” she whispers hoarsely, “Gods, what happened to you?”

“How-” his voice is strangled, like there’s an infinite pressure against his windpipe and he swipes his tongue across his lips, “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here, Yen.”

“We’re trying to find you, you idiot,” she snaps, her fear at the uncertainty of the situation making her lash out, “Where is this place? Is this where you’re being kept?”

He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes tightly shut, doubling back over as he groans, “You can’t be here,” he chokes out, “I can’t… I can’t focus with you here.”

“Is this real? Can I track you here? Jaskier, we can’t come get you if you don’t give me some-” her mouth falls open as she gasps, watching the cracks in his face grow longer and wider. It really is as though he’s a china doll that’s been dunked into a pot of boiling water.

“You need… to  _ GO _ !” His grip on her wrist tightens before she feels herself being hurled from the dream, throwing her forcefully back into her body that’s still resting alongside her family in the tent in the woods. She sits straight upright with a loud gasp, coughing and heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Geralt is on his feet in an instant, his sword in his hand as he looks around wildly with an aggressive snarl on his face. 

It takes him a few moments to realize that there is no danger and he lays his steel sword back down on his bed before moving to the edge of hers, sitting down gently and reaching out for her.

“Don’t touch me!” She snarls at him, moving as far away as she can before doubling over and gripping the bed sheets so tightly her knuckles turn white. It takes her a very long time to calm down again, Ciri and Letra awake as well by that point and pretending not to be paying attention to her as she gasped and spluttered for air. It feels like there’s something caught in her throat and after coughing and hacking she feels it move into her mouth so she spits it into her hand.

A crumpled buttercup sits on her palm and there’s a dark bruise on her wrist in the shape of a handprint.

The following day finds them following the Vda river along the edge of Brokilon Forest, searching for the bend that will lead them into the depths of the home of the dryads. Geralt has exercised extreme restraint in not asking what happened the night before, which Yennefer appreciates since she’s aware that he knows mages can’t dream so she can’t possibly have had a nightmare.  _ Sure felt like one _ , she thinks to herself and shudders slightly even as the sun shines overhead. Geralt glances at her with a concerned expression and she sighs silently, signalling to allow Ciri and Letra to pull ahead a little bit on Lady Custard so as to not be overheard.

“Are you gonna tell me what that was all about?” Geralt asks immediately, his voice low and his eyes searching their surroundings for threats as he focuses his attention on her. In the distance there are the howls of wolves but they’re far enough away that he isn’t worried about them.

Yennefer rubs under her eyes with the tips of her fingers, trying to ease the ache from not sleeping well that lingers there, “I thought I was having a vision, then that theory got debunked and I thought I was somehow soothsaying.” The river bends inwards towards the forest and the travelers guide their steeds to follow the water, water lilies blooming on top of the slow moving surface.

“Dream walking?” He frowns and glances over at her again, “Don’t you need to be able to dream to do that?”

“Mhm,” the sorceress nods and she gently traces the skin of her cheeks as her gaze becomes far away, “Which is why I think I could have somehow been pulled into someone else’s mind. If he wasn’t asleep, then I was mind-reading.”

“He? He who?”

She looks at him seriously, dropping her hands to her reins and holding those in her lap, “Jaskier. I think… I think he was somehow able to grab my mind since my defences were down during sleep in our warded tent. He was able to grab it and pull it to him.” She takes a shaking breath and her eyes dart around the trees for something, anything to focus on, “It shouldn’t have been possible, Geralt. You can’t read people’s minds or perform mind magic without physical touch of some sort. And to get through all of my wards as well?”

“What are you saying?” She can see the same fear she feels reflected in his eyes even as he just frowns at her, his hands tightening on Roach’s reins.

“I think we didn’t realize what kinda and just how powerful Jaskier’s magic is,” she speaks just barely above a whisper, biting her lip gently, “And I think he doesn’t quite know either.”

Geralt’s frown deepens and he opens his mouth to reply when there’s a loud howl to their left, the wolves having approached unnoticed, with a responding howl to their right across the river. The horses’ ears flick nervously as they shy away from the sounds and towards each other and Ciri pulls back on the reins of Lady to make her mare fall back closer to Geralt and Yennefer. A third and fourth howl joins the cacophony from behind them and Roach snorts anxiously. It isn’t until a fifth and final wolf joins in, close enough that Geralt spots its eyes in the brush, that Lady whinnies and rears up in fear. Ciri and Letra gasp and hold on tightly until the horse’s hooves hit the ground heavily and she takes off at a gallop through the forest.

“Fuck,” Geralt and Yennefer say in unison before spurring their horses into following sprints, trying to catch up to Ciri. The wolves bark and howl alongside them as they give chase, large paws thundering through the forest and splashing through the shallows of the river. One massive beast leaps towards Yennefer and she blasts it away with a burst of concussive magic, making the canine yelp and whine as it slams into a tree trunk. More and more wolves are joining in the chase and the predators are closing in on them, some of the howls and yips coming from up ahead as well.

A pair of wolves burst onto the trail and Lady Custard brays and rears back again, knocking Ciri and Letra free of his back and they fall to the ground with twin grunts of shock and pain. Geralt swings off of Roach and draws his sword as he tries to figure out which direction the wolves will attack from as the circle of beasts closes in on them. Yennefer flanks Ciri and Letra’s other side, providing protection in that direction, but they’re still outnumbered. One of the wolves growls and then leaps forward, snapping its jaws at Roach, but before it can reach the horse an arrow whistles through the air and buries itself deep in the neck of the wolf. It hits the ground with a whining cry and collapses, blood staining its gray fur. 

Geralt looks up in shock as more arrows rain down upon the wolves, stopping most of them from advancing close to their party. Any wolves that break through the hail of projectiles, Geralt easily cuts down with his sword or Yennefer dispatches with her magic. As quickly as it all began it is over, the group surrounded by the corpses of the wolves and the sickly copper scent of blood is filling the air.

Geralt doesn’t sheath his sword, keeping an eye out for whoever assisted them in case their sudden allies decide to turn on them. There’s some soft rustling that sounds too methodical to be an accidental sound before the beautiful, dark skinned dryads of Brokilon Forest step out amongst the trees, still holding their bows and sporting quivers of arrows on their hips. The fletching of the arrows varies from the majestic flight feathers of eagles to the downy of swans, each offering different balance and speed to the arrow it’s darned upon. 

“What business do you have here, travelers?” One of them, wearing a green hair covering, demands as she steps forward with her bow drawn and aimed at Geralt, “You should know it’s foolhardy to enter Brokilon.”

“I… we…” Geralt struggles to figure out what exactly to say to them and Ciri steps in, standing up straight and drawing her shoulders back authoritatively.

“We’re here on behalf of the elves of Dol Blathanna,” she says in a firm and steady voice, “I am Cirilla Fiona Elen Rhiannon, princess of Cintra and future queen. I have visited Brokilon Forest before, five years ago, and the dryads offered me their assistance then. I ask now to only be allowed council with the leader of the dryads so I may speak with them about the elves.”

The dryad with the green headscarf looks at them one by one, gazing deep into their eyes. When her eyes meet Geralt’s he feels like he’s being stripped naked and danced around like a circus bear, like his secrets aren’t his to keep and this dryad knows everything about him now. Oddly enough, what comes to mind aren’t secrets about Kaer Morhen or the Witchers or even Ciri. What comes to the forefront of his mind is long fingers teasing the cat gut strings of a lute, the crackling of a campfire and the sizzling of fat dripping off of meat into the flames as the crickets chirped and the stars glowed overhead through the trees. The dryad must see something she likes as he lips quirk upwards at the corners and she nods, lowering her bow and relaxing the string even as she leaves the arrow nocked.

“Follow us,” she says and then turns and slips away back into the trees. Ciri blinks in surprise before quickly mounting Marshmallow and pulling Letra up behind her, the teens barely waiting for Geralt to mount Roach before they’re following the dryad deeper into the forest. 

Even as the trees get closer together and the canopy grows denser there is no light lost to the leaves, instead it becomes a beautiful emerald shade that makes Ciri and Geralt’s pale skin look tinged with green. The farther into the trees they go, the louder a background buzzing sound is becoming and when Geralt focuses on it he realizes it’s the drone of a town. The music of nature and the melody of the mockingbirds has gained a percussive backdrop of clattering pans and shuffling feet and cheerful chatter.

When they break through the trees and enter a clearing they find a modest village with a beautiful tree, that’s shot through with electric blue veins, standing tall and strong in the village square. As they’re passing through the village, other dryads are bustling around in their duties and Ciri gasps softly as she spots a singular male with pointed ears and skin almost as dark as the native dryads. Geralt doesn’t even pretend to not be listening as he looks at her while Letra leans closer and asks quietly, “Do you know him?”

“That’s Dara,” Ciri whispers in a sober voice, her words heavy with grief, “he’s the elf who helped me escape Cintra.” Letra sits up straighter and goes to raise her hand in greeting when Ciri grabs the wrist of the musician, holding it tightly in her hand as she shakes her head, “He won’t remember me, Let. He drank from the waters of Brokilon when we were here last… to forget all the things my grandmother did to his people.”

Letra’s shoulders drop and she curls forwards towards Ciri, the scent of her empathic grief strong enough for Geralt to get a taste of the thick and sour yeast on the back of his tongue. “I’m so sorry, Ciri.” Ciri shakes her head and they fall silent as the group continues to follow the dryad towards the largest of the huts, stopping them at a hitching post in front of it in a silent encouragement for them to dismount from their steeds.

Once the horses are all properly secured and drinking deeply from the buckets of water brought over by some of the dryads wandering the village, the woman with the green headscarf opens the door to the hut and leads them inside. The lighting in here is low and the air is hazy from the copious amounts of incense smoldering on the glowing embers of a fire. Sitting cross legged on the ground beside it is another dryad, this one dressed in voluminous half skirts made of woven grasses and soft leaves that puddle at her sides and back but leave her legs bare.

Her naked skin is ornately decorated with white, tattooed runes that start on the bottoms of her feet and flow up her legs and dip beneath the waist of her skirt to reappear on her soft stomach. They swirl over her breasts and along her sharp collarbone, the bone coloring of the ink standing out in stark contrast against her ebony skin. Her cheekbones and forehead are adorned with smaller runes, the space between them populated with inked stars, and she has a single white line tattooed on the center of her bottom lip. The dryad’s kinky hair is shaped into neat dreads that are threaded with wooden beads and feathers and then swept up into an elegant topknot to keep it out of her face and her the lobes of her ears are pierced and stretched with large wooden hoops. She is beautiful and graceful and Geralt knows without a shadow of a doubt that this is Eithné, Queen of Brokilon Forest and leader of the dryads.

Eithné turns her dark eyes upon them all as they enter and the dryad who guided them here drops to one knee to show her respect, bowing her head to her queen. Geralt nods in lieu of bowing while Ciri, Letra, and Yennefer all curtsy out of politeness. Shockingly, Yennefer is the one who dips the lowest, a strange glimmer of admiration in her violet eyes as she looks up at Eithné reverently.

“My queen, these humans have come to request a council with you on behalf of the elves of Dol Blathanna,” the dryad murmurs, still holding her low bow. Eithné smiles and waves for the woman to stand up again.

“Rise, Aeradne, and be on your way. I am familiar with most of these humans,” the queen’s eyes sweep over them, lingering briefly on Letra, “Thank you for guiding them here.”

Aeradne bows at the waist before leaving the hut, the door shutting behind her. The incense smells strongly of cloves and honeysuckle, the fire made of smoldering oak wood and hints of pine are amongst the smoke. The heady scents make Geralt’s head spin and he blinks hard against the onslaught of vertigo to focus his attentions on the queen in front of them. 

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Eithné rises to her feet and Geralt blinks in surprise at her height and the sight of strong muscles in her broad shoulders and thick legs, “It is a pleasure to have you in my presence once more. How are you faring after Sodden?”

Yennefer inclines her head in a show of her esteem towards the dryad queen, “I am much better. Thank you for your concern and your care after the battle. I don’t think I would have recovered as well as I have if not for you.” 

Geralt glances over at her in curious surprise, making a note to ask her about this later since Yennefer never mentioned to him ever visiting Brokilon before. HIs attention is brought forward to the queen as she addresses him next. “Geralt of Rivia, it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance. I’ve heard much about you and your heroics.”

“You have?” He raises an eyebrow skeptically, “I find that those tales tend to be sung in taverns to masses of drunken humans. I’ve yet to see either amongst your trees.”

She smiles knowingly and clasps her hands in front of her, stepping around the fire to stand before him and he has to tilt his head back to hold her gaze as she stands nearly a foot taller than him, “You’re correct in your assumption that we don’t invite intoxicated humans our way with temptations of taverns or bars, and neither do we venture into those establishments.” 

He squints at her slightly, his instincts to not trust anyone warring with his inherent respect for the dryads, “Respectfully, your highness, then how have you heard of me?”

“From the source of course. He has a beautiful voice after all, and the elves are our close cousins.” 

Geralt feels like the world has been shifted off axis yet again as the queen moves over to Letra. Jaskier has been here? In Brokilon? He’s performed for the queen of the dryads and when he did that what he performed were songs about  _ him _ ? The Witcher’s face is feeling peculiarly hot as he looks down at his boots and fiddles with the lute string tied around his wrist, Jaskier’s pendant feeling heavier than ever against his skin.

“I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with you, little bard,” Eithné smiles down at Letra, the bardling trembling slightly in nervous approbation as she twists her fingers together.

“My name’s Letra, I’m an aspiring bard,” Letra’s voice wavers with nerves but her shoulders are back and her spine is straight as she cranes her head back to look up at the queen.

Eithné tilts her head slightly as she looks into Letra’s eyes for a few silent moments before nodding and placing a hand on top of the bardling’s dark curls, “You are a very brave child, Letra of Nilfgaard.” Geralt frowns deeply, hadn’t Letra told them she was from Lyria?

“Not of Nilfgaard,” Letra interrupts sharply and Eithné looks taken aback by the venom in her voice, “Not anymore. Not after what they’ve done.” 

The queen smiles a large grin, her teeth bright and her canines are flat just like the elves, “Of Cintra, then. As you will someday be.” She then goes to Ciri as she leaves Letra stunned and with a dark flush on her cheeks.

“Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Rhiannon,” Eithné gives Ciri a small bow and the girl turns bright red, “I am sorry that I never got to meet you the last time you were in my forest, it seems Destiny has brought you and your companions here for a reason. Please, why do you come on behalf of my cousins at the edge of the world?”

Ciri clears her throat, her hand seeking Letra’s for support and a source of comfort as she speaks clearly, “As you may know, the country of Nilfgaard is waging a war across the Continent. They’re conquering lands and terrorizing the people as they spread their pestilence north, laying siege to anyone and everyone in their way. Their next plan of attack is on Dol Blathanna, to capture and invade the elven territory and enslave the elves living there. Force them to fight on the front-lines as little more than cannon fodder. When I spoke with Filavandrel, I promised him I would try to help him by gathering as many elves and friends of the evellian as I could.” She falters slightly before lifting her chin and setting her jaw, “I believe, as cousins of the elves, you can help them. So I come asking for your assistance.”

Eithné is silent as she listens to Ciri and once the princess has finished her plea, the queen returns to where she had been sitting across the embers and folds her legs beneath her as she settles down on the ground, “I thank you for bringing this to my attention, Princess Cirilla. This is a very serious problem and one that I will take into my consideration. I will speak with the dryads about it and we shall hold a vote in two days' time, as this would involve their safety and their lives if we were to lend our help.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” Ciri curtsies low and bows her head, “That is all I ask of you for now, is your consideration.”

Eithné hums with a small smile, “In the meantime, you all may stay in the village. Do not stray beyond the treeline without a guide as Brokilon is mischievous and likes to play with those who do not know their way. You are dismissed.”

Ciri murmurs her thanks again and the door opens, casting bright sunlight into the hut as Aeradne waits for them outside. They emerge, blinking, into the daylight to see that their horses have already been stabled and Aeradne leads them to two small huts, each equipped with two beds that are low to the ground and a wash basin in the corner of the room. At the sight of the mattresses, Geralt feels the wave of fatigue he’s been holding at bay and he sees it reflected on his companion’s faces as they all retire despite it being early afternoon still. 

Yennefer is asleep the moment she lies down on her bed in the hut that she is sharing with Geralt, Ciri and Letra in the one next door, but he finds himself laying awake for a while longer despite the exhaustion that pulls at his limbs and stings his eyes. He wonders about Yennefer having visited Brokilon in the past, apparently shortly after Sodden Hill, and whether Letra is from Nilfgaard or not. He’s never clocked a Nilfgaardian accent on the bardling’s tongue, but Geralt never caught an evellian accent on Jaskier’s, either. Maybe it’s just a bard thing, being able to disguise your voice. 

He runs his fingers along the string tied on his wrist before reaching up and pulling the pendant out from under the collar of his shirt, having taken to wearing the necklace instead of stowing it in his pocket after it fell out and he nearly lost it. Geralt looks at the delicately carved stem, with miniscule thorns on it, and the paper petals etched into the gold face of the pendant. He runs his thumb over the lettering that blossoms off of the petals before turning the pendant over to look at the Elder engraving, staring at the name Julian until his eyes close and he falls asleep with the necklace clutched tightly between his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Plant Symbolism - Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plant_symbolism)
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	6. Heart Beating Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof! This chapter is heavy and a lot longer than I thought it would be, clocking in at 5400 words. Enjoy!
> 
> CW: Descriptions of torture, paranoia, hallucinations, solitary confinement, implied infanticide

Time becomes something fluid, slipping through his fingers and piling at his feet the way wet sand would dribble from his fist into the towers of the castles he built as a child. Unlike those sandcastles, though, he can’t control where the towers grow, the time creeping up around him and forming walls that hold his arms down and pound against his skull while they sear through his veins. He sobs for the sea, his heart aching for the simplicity of his childhood as an inferno rages in his corpse. For he must be dead at this point, no human body can withstand this incessant torture.

_ But you’re not a human _ , a voice whispers to him, sounding suspiciously like a certain white-haired Witcher. Molten gold burns through him and behind his eyelids, blinding him whether his eyes are shut tight or not against the agony of each potion tipped into his open mouth and shot straight into his veins. His lips are chapped and he tastes copper on his tongue constantly from the blood that oozes onto his teeth each time he cracks the scabs with another ululation of pain. 

It could be minutes or it could be months until the fire in his blood eases enough for him to become aware of cold hands on his boiling skin. He can do little more than moan brokenly, trembling from the exertion of holding his wild chaos at bay, and when he feels gentle fingers on his cheek he’s powerless to the comfort they provide. He turns his face into the cool caress and mocking laughs filter through his fuzzy consciousness, making his lips twitch downward as he forces his eyes open.

Leaning over him is Fringilla, a sneer on her scarred face, and she’s close enough to him that he can feel each puff of her humid breath on his sparking skin like a crackling firework. It’s her hand that’s touching his face and, much to his humiliation, he doesn’t pull away like he thought he would. Instead he just closes his eyes again and tries to imagine the hand belongs to someone, anyone, else. Perhaps Yennefer, they’d shared physical closeness a time or two when their individual loneliness grew to be too much for them. 

“Open your eyes, rat,” Fringilla’s fingers pull away before slapping him, the smacking of flesh against flesh ringing through the laboratory. It feels like a bomb against his cheek and he wails as his sensitive skin is aggravated. Her cold fingers return, gripping his jaw now to wrench his head towards her as she commands him, “Open your fucking eyes!”

Jaskier whimpers, the sound a hoarse whisper from his broken vocal cords, and forces his eyes open again. They burn against the harsh torchlight behind the sorceress and he suspects, had he any more tears to shed, his vision would be wavering. Instead it is blurry from his fatigue and the pain that still pulses through him with every sluggish beat of his faltering heart. He doesn’t remember his heart being that slow and he wonders if he should be concerned by the way it thuds irregularly against his aching ribs.

“You’re proving to be more of a problem than I anticipated,” she hisses, her talons digging into his flesh and he smells the tang of blood on the air intensify, “Why will you not just unleash your chaos, huh? Fucking Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg had no problem doing it at Sodden, burning down a chunk of Nilfgaard’s army. You’re not even being asked to do it to accomplish anything, so why do you resist?”

He thinly gasps, his head spinning as he tries to ground himself enough to listen to her. It’s a red grin that stretches his stained lips, his eyes narrowing defiantly as he rasps, “ _ Fuck you _ .”

She scowls and shoves his head back against the table, stars bursting before his eyes before leaving black dots dancing in his vision. “Prepare the final potion then throw him in the sensory deprivation room,” Fringilla commands of the other mages and Jaskier is barely able to understand what she’s  _ saying _ let alone what the words mean, “Maybe that’ll unlock those pesky memories you sensed, Hartel.”

Hartel’s voice sounds annoyed as he approaches the elf, “I’m still not sure why we aren’t able to reach them. It’s like a locked door that keeps changing what key you need to get in.” He has a round vial with a glittering, scarlet potion in it, and when Hartel uncorks the vial the sweet scent of strawberries fills the air. It’s so jarring against the sour smells of his own piss and blood that Jaskier gags.

“Quit your moaning and get it over with,” Fringilla snaps and he hears her moving around behind his head, “The sooner we can get to that chaos the sooner we can return to the White Flame with news of our success. We may even be able to assist in the conquering of Dol Blathanna and the evellian territories.”

Jaskier’s mouth is forced open and he groans as the rough touch burns his skin. Even the cold glass of the vial isn’t a balm as it’s pressed against the corner of his mouth and the strawberry concoction is poured down his throat. He heaves and nearly vomits it right back up, the potion tastes  _ vile _ , like the way drowner brains smell after they’ve been left to rot in the sun for a few days and attracted the hideous scavengers that are necrophages. Hartel clamps his hand over Jaskier’s mouth though, and while his stomach doesn’t settle, the threat of expulsion abates.

He’s then unchained from the table and heaved to his feet, sobbing helplessly against the intense agony of hands on him as he’s dragged bodily from the room. He’s lost his boots at some point and his toes catch on each imperfection in the stone, sending stabbing pain through his feet and up his legs and making his ragged breaths hitch. He nearly thanks his luck that wherever the mages are taking him is only down the hall from the lab, the door creaking open ominously as they approach and revealing pitch darkness on the other side.

The back of his neck prickles and panic shoots through him, making him jerk against the hands holding him up violently enough that they drop him in surprise. Jaskier cries out as he hits the hard floor, the sharp angles of his bones colliding painfully with the stone, but he has to  _ move _ , has to get away, has to do  _ something _ or he’s going to die. He knows if he goes into that room he isn’t coming out again, so he starts to crawl, dragging himself across the jagged stone even as it causes him to scream.

“Fucking prick!” Hartel swears and grabs Jaskier’s ankle, yanking him back and the floor cuts into his hands and stomach. 

“Guess the potion started working faster than Fringilla thought it would,” Agella’s dispassionate voice states from above him as he writhes against Hartel’s grip, uncaring of the agony each movement causes.

“Nonononononono,” Jaskier moans, digging his fingers into the space between the flagstones and he feels some of his fingernails rip free of his hands, the sharp pain fading into background noise against everything else, “Please, gods, please! Don’t, please, please, pleasepleaseplease _ please _ !”

They ignore his imploring cries and Hartel drags him across the floor and into the dark room, dropping his legs and striding out again. He and Agella are silhouetted against the light of the hall and as Jaskier tries to climb to his feet, Agella asks him a sickly sweet question, “Are you afraid of the dark, little elf?”

“ _ No!” _ He screams as the door slams shut and he throws himself against it, his shoulder popping loudly and he crumples to the floor in the darkness. Jaskier’s certain there should be a door against his hand as he leans into it, but all he feels is cool stone on his cheek and another ragged sob bursts free of his chest. 

He feels so afraid, the icy tendrils of fear that creep through his limbs fighting against the lingering flames of whatever potions were inflicted upon him. That pulsating gold of his magic continues to linger at the corners of his eyes, beating in time with each pump of blood through his veins that he can feel pulsating in his fingertips and he looks down at his hands, half expecting to see sparks lighting up the complete pitch he’s found himself in.

His breathing sounds incredibly loud in his ears so he takes a few moments to try and calm it, even as his heart continues to unsteadily jackrabbit in his chest with adrenaline and terror coursing through him. There’s a total lack of sound in this room as well, something that makes the fear spike and he whimpers softly. Jaskier presses his back against the wall and pulls his knees tightly to his chest, burying his face in them and trying again to control himself. Something is wrong, other than the obvious. He’s never been afraid of the dark before. Never been claustrophobic before.

But now the darkness presses on his eyes and he feels like the walls that he cannot see are closing in on him. He fears there are hidden monsters in the dark, silent ones that he wouldn’t hear over the rushing of his own blood and the creaking of his own bones. His breaths come in short, fast pants and he feels dizzy and lightheaded so he spreads his knees to shove his head between them, burying his hands in his hair and tugging. His braids fell out long ago from his thrashing, and the tiny ones that remain have become snares for his fingers. The rest of the strands are matted with blood and sweat and who knows what else that cakes beneath his fingernails as he rakes them over his scalp.

It hits him, then, that the strawberry potion may have induced this intense paranoia. He feels untethered, like he’s flying high above the Continent and the stars should be glittering around him but instead he’s stuck in the void between the earth and the heavens. He’s going to faint soon if he doesn’t get his breathing back under control.

It’s with a tremendous amount of effort that he’s able to suppress his racing thoughts, pushing down that overwhelming sense of terror and allowing his heartbeat to slow enough for him to gasp a full breath. The stale air drags through his throat and he coughs it out again, copper coating his tongue with each wet hack and he hears his blood splatter against the floor between his knees. There’s a concerning wheeze in his lungs as he draws in his next ragged breath and lifts his head, letting it fall back against the wall and closing his eyes. He can at least pretend the darkness is deliberate this way, even if it’s still too dark behind his eyelids.

He’s not sure how much time passes, and he’s certain he fell asleep fighting the panic that claws at his heart and twists his stomach at least twice, before he hears a shuffling sound. Like boots on stone. Slowly, he peels his eyes open again and his breath hitches as he gasps. His heart thunders as it thumps against his sternum and beats in his extremities while his eyes drink in the sight before him.

Sitting across from him is Geralt.

He looks healthy, much better from the last time Jaskier saw him before shoving him through Yennefer’s portal. His cheeks aren’t hollowed out anymore and his shoulders are full, his hair looks luscious and well-cared for and so soft as it falls around his face in loose, white waves. His clothes are clean and he has his elbow propped up on one knee, his other long leg extended out and his boot is near where Jaskier thinks his own bare foot is. Best of all, Geralt’s golden gaze is no longer bloodshot or exhausted, no he looks  _ amazing _ and Jaskier greedily looks at him like a man lost in the desert would look at an oasis.

“You’ve really fucked this one up, huh, bard?”

Jaskier nearly laughs, the corners of his lips twitching. That infernal burning from the potions has finally abated enough for it to be manageable, but he still winces each time he moves or shifts a single muscle and the flames lick at his body once more. It takes him a few moments to process what, exactly, Geralt has said to him but even the insult doesn’t hurt quite like it probably should. His relief at the Witcher’s good health overwhelming his own emotional pain.

“I mean, stuck in a keep in the middle of fucking nowhere with a bunch of crazed mages and a couple hundred imprisoned elves that you’re, no doubt, determined to rescue?” Geralt continues and tilts his head to the side, his hair shifting softly, “And I thought Destiny hated  _ me _ .”

“Destiny never hated you, Geralt,” Jaskier says softly, wincing at the hoarse croak that his voice has become. He idly prays that he hasn’t damaged his vocal cords beyond repair from all of his screaming, “She was just, you know, a bit spiteful that you ignored her so frequently.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, his lips twisting into a sardonic smile, “And yet, it’s you who always draws the short straw, wouldn’t you agree?”

He frowns slightly, glancing away and clearing his throat to try and smooth his voice, “I’m, ah, not sure what you mean by that.”

The Witcher leans forward, running his hand down his shin to the top of his booted foot, “Well, when you think about it who was the one who nearly got us killed in Cintra at that banquet? Who did the Djinn attack?”

“Now, see here-”

“Who slept through an entire dragon hunt? Who tried, for  _ decades _ , to get my attention only for me to turn to a sorceress for the kind of affection you so desperately craved?”

“Geralt, that’s not… I just… you were…”

“Who tried to save me from Nilfgaard, only to lose me in the same breath? Who discovered they have more powerful magics than anyone else on the Continent and then  _ doesn’t use it _ to help their people?” Geralt has stood up and is looming over Jaskier, his golden eyes narrowed and his teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

Jaskier shrinks back against the wall, pulling his knees tighter to his chest even as his muscles ache from holding that same position for probable days now. “G-Geralt, stop this,” he protests weakly.

“Who abandoned their people when the Great Cleansing wiped the Continent of all the elven leaders? Hm? Who let Filavandrel step into the position of king, even knowing they could fill it themselves? Who was such a  _ coward _ that their own parents locked away some of their memories so they couldn’t abuse their magic?”

“W-what?” Jaskier squeaks, looking up at him with shining eyes, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Geralt crouches down in front of him and reaches out, caressing Jaskier’s cheek before pinching his pointed ear, “You really think your parents wouldn’t tell you about your fucking magic? You think they’d be that irresponsible? No, it was your own short-comings that forced their hands. They were so disappointed in you.”

Tears run down his dirty cheeks and his mouth hangs open in shock, “How do you know these things? You-you shouldn’t know them. You  _ couldn’t _ know them, Geralt! I never told you anything of the sort!”

“Hm, and that’s another flaw of yours, isn’t it?” Geralt sneers and releases the painful hold he has on Jaskier, bracing his elbows on his knees, “You talk so godsdamned much, yet you never say anything at all. Hell, I didn’t even know you were an elf and I knew you for how long? Twenty two years? Fuck, Jaskier, you always complained that I didn’t call you my friend, but were  _ you _ ever really mine?”

Jaskier gapes at him in shock, indignant hurt making him shove himself to his knees so he can be level with Geralt, “Of course I was! I am!”

“For a friend, you sure liked to make me miserable,” the Witcher scoffs and rocks back on his heels, “Face it, Jaskier, no one wants you. You’re useless as an elf and even worse as my bard.”

He can’t believe what he’s hearing. Sure, he and Geralt have butt heads sometimes, they’re both very strong-willed people. It would be  _ more _ concerning if they got along perfectly. And yeah, maybe Jaskier did stick his foot in his mouth sometimes and Geralt would yell at him for it. The Dragon Mountain experience is still a somewhat painful memory for him even if he has forgiven Geralt for it. But… does he deserve to be told he’s essentially a  _ failure _ of a person?

Maybe he does. He did drag Geralt to the banquet in Cintra, even if he didn’t make the Witcher claim the Law of Surprise. And right after seeing the kind of damage the Law can do, too! And yeah, maybe the Djinn did attack him, but only because Geralt wished for peace and Djinn’s twist wishes to be as chaotic as possible. Everything that happened with Yennefer… Well, that’s not entirely Jaskier’s fault either. He still isn’t sure why Geralt fell in with the sorceress, he has his suspicions, but it doesn’t mean he’s a terrible person for loving Geralt and not earning that love in return.

And what business is it of Geralt's, are his past mistakes? He’s had decades,  _ a century _ , to ruminate on the many things he’s done wrong in his long life. The ways he’s disappointed his parents, grown into something, someone, they didn’t want. How he was meant to be a prince, a king, and instead became a  _ bard _ . How he abandoned his people when they needed him most. Who does Geralt think he is, to rub his failures in his face like this? Doesn’t he  _ know _ that Jaskier is doing all he can to make up for them?

He still feels fear, he’s still terrified of this place, this dark room that he’s been locked in for who knows how long. His head hurts and he’s  _ tired _ and the golden press of magic at his temples and eyes and fingers is so overwhelming all of the time. Honestly, Jaskier’s rather fed up with everything. He’s just so incredibly exhausted and wants this all to be over and now this? Now, Geralt has the  _ gall _ to treat him like utter shit?

Jaskier scowls and brings his hands up, planting them firmly on Geralt’s chest and shoving him away, “You absolute  _ bastard _ , Geralt,” he snarls, shakily getting to his feet to tower over the Witcher, “You think I don’t know about all of my flaws? You think  _ you’re _ miserable in my company? Try  _ being me _ , arsehole! I live with what I’ve done every single day, the blood on my hands, the red in my ledger I can never wash clean. I’ll happily own up to my mistakes, but I will  _ not _ take responsibility for yours!”

Geralt is looking up at him from his place on the ground with wide eyes as Jaskier shakes with barely contained rage, his heart beating golden in his chest, “I’m tired of being your chew toy! Your actions have consequences, Geralt of Rivia, and it’s time you stop pushing those consequences off onto me! I deserve more than that, whether you love me… hell, whether you fucking  _ tolerate _ me or not! I deserve better than that! I am better!

“I should have never let your filthy insults hang over me as long as they did. And who’s the worse for it? Me! I was beating myself up for so long over things that I had no control over! And I shouldn’t be doing that, I’m tired of it. I’m fucking exhausted and I don’t want to feel like shit every single day anymore, Geralt,” he’s stopped yelling, his hoarse voice lowering back to a tired croak, “I deserve better than that, too. And I deserve better than a fucking  _ hallucination _ of my best friend telling me how much of a piece of shit I am.”

Jaskier takes a few heaving breaths, ignoring how they catch in his chest and tickle his throat to try and make him cough up more blood, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have this lovely darkness to contemplate. It’s really quite the mood-setter, and the complete silence? Provides the perfect ambience for going insane. Which I must have if I’m seeing you when I can’t see anything else.” He closes his eyes, leans back against the wall, and slides to the floor as his shaking knees give out and the adrenaline rush of his anger fades.

He hears more shuffling and ignores it as best he can until he feels the hot puff of Geralt’s breath on his face, making him wrinkle his nose and squint his eyes at the Witcher, “What? What do you want?”

Geralt’s nose is almost touching him as golden eyes look deep into his own. Geralt’s gaze briefly flickers down to Jaskier’s lips and the elf nearly laughs at the irony of what his own mind is about to do for him. He knows, wholeheartedly, that the Geralt in front of him is a hallucination, the supporting evidence is overwhelming, but it doesn’t stop the soft sigh he lets out when their lips connect.

It’s only briefly, just a moment before the warmth and tenderness that Jaskier has been desperately craving for so long is gone, and when he opens his eyes Geralt is gone, too, and he has a golden key pressed into his hand. Jaskier lifts it up to look at it more closely, mildly in awe of the intricate metalwork that creates delicate loops and swirls forming a mimicry of flowers in the bow. He looks behind him at where the door, he thinks, should be and feels the wall for the wood, huffing when he just feels stone like before.

As he turns to sit straight again he catches sight of a golden box out of the corner of his eye and turns to look at it, certain that it wasn’t there before. Jaskier frowns and looks down at the matching golden key before crawling over to the box with extreme caution, gingerly reaching out and prodding it with the tip of the key and making the box shift across the stone floor. The lid of the small chest is decorated with the same swirling golden accoutrements of the key, flowers bursting from the surface. Etched into the metal are Elder characters, looking as though they’re about to take flight as the phrase  _ memories are never lost, only hard to find _ loops around the golden lid and reinforced corners. The sides of the box are made of glass, and up close Jaskier can see that what the box contains is as golden as his magic and writhes within its prison like a cyclone.

Jaskier looks at the key in his hand again before gingerly slotting it into the keyhole of the box and twisting, the lock mechanism coming undone with an anticlimactic  _ click. _ The lid springs open a smidgeon and when nothing immediately happens he lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and chuckles nervously. As the sound echoes in the dark room, the golden vortex within the box ceases its movement, and for one pregnant moment everything is completely still. Then it surges out of its containment, throwing the lid back to clink against the side of the box, and hits Jaskier square in the chest.

* * *

_The spring sun is low in the sky as the dew of the morning hangs over the empty field that Julian and his mother stand in._ _She extends her hands before pausing and looking down at him, waiting for the boy to hold his own small hands out in front of him, and then smiling fondly when he wiggles his fingers in anticipation. The rich smell of damp petrichor wafts up from the barren earth beneath their boots and birds twitter in the trees around the field, harkening the new day with their joyous song._

_ Julian watches as his mother flexes and spreads her thin fingers, moving her hands outwards in a sweeping motion and flowers spring up from the ground wherever she directs the plant life to grow. Soft, green grasses follow and the meadow sways with the gentle breeze the earth pushes through its newest inhabitants. His mother indicates that he attempt the same and Julian takes a deep breath, spreading his little fingers and narrowing his eyes as he focuses on the pull of the golden magic that flows through the Continent: through the ground beneath his feet, through the air above his head, through his mother at his side and the grasses and flowers before them.  _

_ He concentrates on that pull and tugs back at it, nudging the chaos and teasing it until it playfully dances at his fingertips and he pushes the magic into the soil, asking it to grow him a meadow like it did his mother. The chaos laughs at him and a single, scraggly dandelion pops out of the ground at his feet, the yellow top taunting him as it bobs in the breeze. _

~~~~~

_ A mage is in their sitting room. He has salt hairs peppered into his dark brown beard and sharp, steel-gray eyes that watch Julian’s every restless movement as they await his parent’s return. His mother and father have just stepped out of the room for a moment to discuss Master Stregobor’s offer to escort Julian to Ban Ard so that he may learn how to better control his chaos. Julian’s mother is against the idea, she’s the one training him currently and after twenty-five years he’s had enough of it to no longer lose control of his magic in tandem with his emotions.  _

_ “But what about the day Julian is faced with a magical threat?” His father had asked her before she requested a moment in private with the King of the elves. _

_ Master Stregobor watches him shift his weight uncomfortably yet again before breaking the tense silence that stretches between them, “Your highness, do you understand the power that you wield?” _

_ Julian looks up in surprise and glances towards the door through which his parents have gone, willing them to return quickly, “Yes, sir, Master Stregobor.” _

_ “You understand what it can do?” _

_ He nods slightly, watching the mage uneasily, “I can create life with my chaos.” _

_ “And you can destroy it,” Stregobor adds, “Your brand of chaos allows you to control the flow of magic itself. You could be a valuable asset to the Brotherhood, Prince Julian.” _

_ “He will be no such thing,” Queen Julia states firmly as she re-enters the sitting room with her husband in tow, “The King and I have come to an agreement and Julian will remain here to complete his training. If he desires to go to Ban Ard after that, then that is his decision.” His mother’s eyes are gentle while her words are iron and unwilling to bend to anyone’s whims but her own. Julian feels relieved and turns away from the, now seething, mage to nod his thanks to her when her blue eyes meet his own. _

_ ~~~~~ _

_ Smoke billows into the dark sky as ash rains down around them like snow in the summer. The screams of the innocent echo through the city as elves are struck down, their lives torn bloody by axes and swords and cudgels and maces. A baby’s distressed wails somewhere abruptly cut off and the sobbing of children can be heard as they cry out for the parents whose tethers on life have been cut. Each sudden death rings through the golden chaos that Julian feels burning every one of his nerve endings as he viciously wields his magic at the defense of his people. _

_ He sees golden threads binding lives to the earth and he snips the ones that are thin enough to be cut, breaking down the thicker ropes with infernal attacks that bubble and boil the skin of the humans foolish enough to try and overthrow Letenhyve. Their own shrieks are like the sweetest of music to his ears as his eyes blaze and his heart beats golden with his rage. The thickest thread, a golden chain, ties Master Stregobor to the spheres and Julian snarls when he spots the mage. They should have never let him into their country. _

_ As he tries to get closer to the sorcerer, to cull him the same way the humans are slaughtering Julian’s people, another mage attempts to sneak up behind him. Julian only has a moment’s notice in the shifting of chaos that has him spinning away from the lightning that jumps out of this new sorceress’s fingers. It hits where he had been standing the ground explodes, sending him flying to the side and showering him with dirt and debris that fills his lungs and stings his eyes.  _

_ Julian coughs as his ears ring, a high-pitched whine filling his head, and a hand grabs his shoulder to yank him to his feet. Chaos hums around them in an angry buzz, tainted by the foul magic of the sorceress as she forces her control over the power and uses it to hold him aloft. Her thin fingers choke him and he scrabbles to grab onto something, anything, the toes of his boots scuffing the ground.  _

_ Julian’s hands wrap around her wrist and as black spots dance in his vision he feels the necrotic infection of her chaos flowing within her so he grabs it and he pulls.  _

_ Immediately, she drops him and the chaos he felt within her is gone. Panic spreads across her face as she attempts to conjure a portal, and then tries again, and again, but is unable to call to the magic. It’s gone, abandoned her at his gentle insistence, and he separates the pure chaos from her tainted magic with a burst of energy he didn’t know he still had. Her magic springs back into her, and without the chaos to balance out the oppressive sickness, her magic becomes her death toll.  _

_ Julian sees her collapse before his vision swims and he falls back, his own magic pushing him into an enchanted sleep. _

~~~~~

_ Jaskier is a human bard with a glamour who used to be an evellian prince named Julian. He ran away when the humans came to attack Letenhyve, and when he returned his parents were dead along with thousands of others. He has crimson stained hands and he should have stayed and fought, should have done something to help, should have died alongside his family, but he didn’t. So he wanders the Continent, camping in forests and playing in taverns, making small fires with great effort by speaking incantations to control his mild amount of chaos and feeling like something isn’t quite right.  _

* * *

Jaskier awakes with a gasp and a pounding headache that flares into existence when he sits up too fast. He presses his palms into his eyes as he tries to figure out what in all the gods’ names just happened and he realizes that he doesn’t feel the crushing press of golden chaos anymore. It’s not fighting and straining and pushing at him to let go and release it into the world, to allow it to protect him wildly. It’s still there, simmering just below the surface of the earth and flowing along the spheres like a river that has carved its path steadily for thousands of years, but Jaskier isn’t afraid of it anymore.

He opens his wet eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath before hoarsely whispering into the lonesome darkness that engulfs him, relief coloring his voice, “I didn’t abandon them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	7. Dara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter!

Ciri is going insane.

The days creep by slowly as they await the answer of the dryads’ to the elves' call for help. She doesn’t understand why they don’t simply agree, why they aren’t immediately willing to come to the aid of their cousins. If it were her, she would say yes in a heartbeat. She would run to the side of her family, jump into battle headfirst for them. She’d do anything for them. 

But as she thinks upon this, she feels a looming sense of guilt. One that’s festered and boiled in her stomach for days and months and years. One that she forgot about, until she saw Dara again. 

He’s the only male in the small village, and as such it’s impossible for Ciri not to see him. They cross paths more than once, the princess awkwardly excusing herself from his presence and catching just the barest glimpse of confusion in his eyes as she gets away as fast as she can. She can’t stand being near him, that overwhelming regret swelling and nearly swallowing her whole. But at the same time, she longs desperately to be by his side.

He was the only person to help her during her mad dash after the Fall of Cintra. Everyone else turned a blind eye to the little 11-year-old girl dressed in Cintran blue as she desperately fled for her life in search of a witcher. But Dara didn’t. He slowed his own racing feet to help her through the forest, protect her from the things unseen, feed her when she didn’t know how to feed herself. 

And she betrayed him.

She recognizes that it was her grandmother who harmed the elves so completely and irreversibly. Who swept through Cintra with vitriol and hatred in her heart. Who rallied the other nations in ridding themselves of their evellian populations. Ciri wasn’t even born yet when the Great Cleansing occurred. And yet… she can’t help but feel like it’s her fault. 

It’s irrational and ridiculous and something she shouldn’t feel at all but she can’t help it. She aches to be able to do something, to be able to fix what her grandmother caused. It’s why she agreed to help Filavandrel. Why she’s more than willing to go along with Destiny and not shirk her call. 

And it’s why, today, she’s going to talk to Dara.

Letra offers to go along with her, and Ciri thanks her girlfriend with a sweet kiss, but tells the bard that she needs to do this alone. Ciri finds Dara while he’s pulling water from a well, approaching quietly, but not silently. She clears her throat gently, her heart pounding in her chest as he turns his deep, brown gaze upon her with no recognition.

“Do you need help, your highness?”

Ciri takes a rattling breath and shakes her head, “No-- no, thank you. I, um, I was wondering what your name was?”

“Dara, your highness.”

Her heart aches as he tells her his name, the same one she’s always known him to have. The waters of Brokilon may have taken his memory, but not who he is. “Dara. My name is Ciri. No need to call me by anything more formal. I’m a monarch of a memory.”

“I… I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sorry for your loss,” Dara looks vaguely uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” Ciri takes a deep breath, “After… when I was trying to find safety, you and I met. Before you came to live in Brokilon.”

He sets his bucket of water on the ground, suddenly nervous as he plays with his fingers, “I apologize, I’m unable to remember our time together. I drank--”

“The waters of Brokilon, I know,” Ciri says softly, “I was there."

“Oh.”

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence for a few moments before they both speak simultaneously:

“I should go--”

“Dara, I wanted to--”

Ciri blinks and then glances away, crossing her arms over her chest, “I’m sorry, I know this is awkward and confusing and doesn’t make any sense to you. But I just-- I needed to apologize. I know you don’t remember, and this apology is meaningless, but Dara I--” Her voice breaks and, to her horror, she can feel tears welling up in her eyes, “I’m so  _ sorry. _ I’m so sorry for all the shit I put you through when we were together. I’m so sorry my grandmother did so many awful things to your people. I’m trying my hardest to fix it, or at least make it the slightest bit better, but I’m just so sorry it came to this point, Dara.

“I’m not looking for forgiveness, I know you don’t know what I’m talking about. I just needed to apologize to you,” tears drip down her cheeks and she’s hugging herself as she glares at the ground, her shoulders shaking and jumping with barely restrained sobs, “I’m so sorry, Dara. I’m so,  _ so _ sorry.”

Her sniffles and hiccups are the only sound that fills the empty silence that stretches between them.

“Ciri…” Dara says softly. She looks up to see him only a few steps away from her, having approached while she tried to hide her tears. “I… you’re right. I don’t know what you’re apologizing for, I don’t understand. However, you sound sincere in your remorse, and that’s more important. You said you’re not looking for forgiveness, but I’ll give it to you willingly.”

“How could you?”

“Because you seem like a good person, your highness.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he shakes his head in agreement, “So you should show me otherwise.”

She sniffs and wipes her eyes on her sleeve, her lip wobbling dangerously, “May I hug you? It’s okay to say no if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I’d prefer you not. But thank you for asking.”

“Okay,” Ciri nods and clears her throat, “Okay, thank you. I’ll… I’ll make it up to you, Dara. I’ll help the elves, fulfill the prophecy. Your people will be safe within Cintran borders once more.”

“I look forward to it, Ciri,” he smiles softly and nods, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. He then picks up his bucket of water and walks away to finish his task and Ciri is left standing alone by the well. 

She swallows hard, still feeling the burn of tears pressing at her eyes as she sits down on the edge of the stone well. She feels a little better, but her guilt is now overshadowed by her all-encompassing grief. Even without his memory, Dara is a better person than she could ever hope to be. How is she to someday run a nation? How is she supposed to save the elves when she can barely hold herself together long enough to make a fucking apology?

It’s perched on the edge of the low wall, sobs bursting from her lungs, where Letra finds her. Her partner sits down quietly beside her, gently reaching a hand out to rub Ciri’s back in a soothing pattern. She doesn’t speak otherwise, just offering comfort in a place where even the gods refuse to tread.

When Ciri finally gets herself under control, it’s with some difficulty that she’s able to croak out, “Sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Letra asks quietly, moving closer so that they’re seated flush from hip to ankle.

“Being a mess. Dragging you into my shit. Geralt yelling at you. This entire fucking prophecy,” Ciri’s breath shudders, “the list goes on.”

“Ciri, dearheart, look at me,” Letra gently turns Ciri’s chin to meet her eyes, “You haven’t made me do anything I didn’t want to. I’m my own person and make my own decisions, yeah?”

Ciri nods.

“And never apologize for being yourself,” she cups Ciri’s cheek in her hand, caressing the bone with her thumb, “Things are hard right now. You’ve got a lot of responsibility on your shoulders and you bear it with a strength and poise that I could only ever hope to possess.”

“You’re always so good at pretty words,” Ciri chuckles wetly and Letra smiles softly, leaning forward and pressing her lips gently to the corner of Ciri’s mouth.

“Only the prettiest of words for my beautiful princess.”

Ciri’s eyes well up again and she surges forward, crashing their lips together passionately. Letra laughs in surprise before leaning into it, wrapping her free arm around Ciri’s waist. Ciri crowds even closer to her, draped half across Letra’s lap with her arms around Letra’s shoulders. 

They kiss for a time before Letra pulls away, a broad grin on her swollen lips, “Okay! Alright, alright, I didn’t just come here to make out with you.”

“Oh, you didn’t? You could have fooled me, love.” Ciri freezes as the endearment slips through her lips but Letra just rolls her eyes with a fond smile.

“As fun as it is, I came to you because the dryads have made a decision. I was sent to find you by Geralt. He didn’t think we should hear without you.”

Ciri’s heart leaps. It’s been three days that they’ve been waiting as the dryad leaders deliberated over whether to lend their aide to the elves of Dol Blathanna. She jumps to her feet and pulls Letra along with her as she starts a beeline back to the village, “Come on, then, what are we waiting for?”

“Ciri, wait,” Letra digs her heels in and Ciri lets go of her hand, turning around to look at her in confusion, “Just… be prepared. I know you want them to say yes and help King Filavandrel, but they could also say no. I just don’t want you to be disappointed if they do.”

“I’m sure they’re agreeing, Letra,” Ciri rolls her eyes, even as her stomach sinks in worry, “Why wouldn’t they help out their family?”

Letra purses her lips and glances away.

“Letra?” Ciri takes a step closer again, “Do you know something that I don’t?”

She refuses to look at Ciri as she drops her gaze to the ground.

“Letra?”

Letra taps her fingers on her thigh before saying in a rush, “They’regoingtosayno.”

“What?”

“The dryads,” Letra tries again, more slowly, “They’re going to--”

Ciri stops her, “No, I heard you the first time. How do you know? I thought you said they hadn’t told anyone yet.”

“They haven’t,” Letra swallows and rubs her cheek in a nervous habit, “I overheard them talking.”

“Did you hear  _ why _ they’re going to say no?”

“I-I didn’t. I’m sorry, Ciri.”

Ciri takes a deep breath in through her nose, holds it for a beat, and then lets it out slowly through her mouth. She’s okay. She’s got her emotions under control. “It’s okay, thank you for telling me. Let’s go make sure you overheard correctly, okay? And maybe they’ll explain themselves as well.”

Letra nods and takes Ciri’s extended hand, lacing their fingers together as she whispers, “Okay.”

The trees tower overhead, filtered sunlight passing through the canopy of green leaves and casting an emerald shadow over their skin. Little dapples of light dance on the forest floor, their footsteps alternating between the crunch of gravel and dirt ground underfoot and soft thumps as moss and lichen grow across the path. The wind rustles the branches and the foliage, a shushing sound emanating from all around them as the breeze whistles along tree limbs.

The air is thick with the scent of detritus, the ground carpeted with fallen leaves and wood chips from the dark bark of trunks. Each tree is as large around as Ciri’s arms can reach, she’s tried already to link her hands while hugging one of the monoliths. Birds titter in the brush and somewhere nearby a cricket is chirping, the beginnings of a symphony sung by an ignorant choir. 

For the birds and the bugs and the bushes aren’t aware of the turmoil roiling within Ciri. What will she do if Eithné says no? Who can she turn to, what help can she find? No army would lend their men to this fight, not when they can stay out of it or fight against the elves. It’s easy to forget how much their people are still hated. Vitriol spewed into their ears and saliva spat at their feet.

No, she needs to remain optimistic, for if she doesn’t then her fragile world could come tumbling down.

When they reach the village center, the enormous Tree of Brokilon reaching for the sky with pulsing blue veins of life within its limbs, Queen Eithné is standing with Geralt and Yennefer. The other dryads are behind the Queen, showing their silent loyalty. The tension in the village is palpable, thick enough to be cut with a blade of grass. Ciri and Letra’s boots grind the dirt beneath them, the only sound in the forest.

“Princess Cirilla,” Queen Eithné greets her with a respectful nod of her head. Ciri and Letra both curtsy, despite neither of them being in skirts today.

“Queen Eithné, I hear you’ve made your decision regarding aiding King Filavandrel?” Ciri asks as she straightens up again.

“I have,” Eithné straightens her back even more than it was previously, drawing her shoulders and raising her chin. She’s the picture of beauty, a vision of leadership. “The dryads will not be lending their aid to Filavandrel. We will remain here in Brokilon.”

Despite Letra’s forewarning, Ciri’s heart plummets. She knows her face betrays her disappointment as she frowns deeply, “May I ask your reasoning?”

“You may,” Eithné nods once, “The dryads are loyal to Brokilon. Our aim is to protect the forest, not lend ourselves to the petty squabbles of men and elves.”

“But what about when those same petty squabbles encroach upon Brokilon?” Ciri argues, her cheeks feeling hot as indignant fury bubbles in her gut, “What then? You will not have the aid of the elves if you do not offer your own. You won’t have the aid of Cintra--”

“We never had the aid of Cintra and we never will,” Eithné says sharply, “You speak of things that will never come to pass. Or if they do, the dryads will be capable of ending a war before it even begins. Men are of no consequence to us, and neither is Filavandrel or his elves. Sorcerers,” she cuts her eyes to Yennefer, “pose less of a threat than a fly that lays its eggs in the meat we store for winter.”

Ciri opens her mouth to argue some more but Queen Eithné cuts her off, “I will not tolerate insolence when we have shown you hospitality not extended to any others. You will leave Brokilon forest, Princess Cirilla, there is nothing for you here.”

“Come on, Ciri,” Geralt says quietly, laying a hand on her shoulder, “It’s okay, we’ll find help somewhere else.”

Ciri is seething as she follows him to the stables, their horses already tacked and ready to ride. It’s clear that Eithné was planning on them leaving now, regardless of whether Ciri was able to convince her or not. They mount their steeds and leave the village in silence, Letra’s arms loosely wrapped around Ciri’s middle. 

The tension lays over them like a thick blanket, heavy wool woven tightly to warm in the cold winter months but instead making the air dense and suffocating. The sun is high in the sky, shadows at their smallest, and all that fills the silence is the plodding of hooves on the packed earth.

The trees give way to grasslands once more, sod waving in the gentle breeze and the hills swirling and flapping a greeting to no one. The lands are in a constant state of performance, and yet the audience they retain is next to none. Every once in a great while, some poet will appreciate its beauty, transcribe it into song or tale-of-mouth. But more often than not, the grasses dance for no one.

There’s not even the songs of animals living amongst the meadows, everything at the edge of Brokilon silenced by whatever magic resides amongst the trees. The trees creek and almost seem to lean towards them as they draw away from the forest’s edge, brambles tugging at their knees straddled across their saddles. The tension of the forest, very different from the kind held by Geralt, stretches and stretches and Ciri can almost see the way the chaos of the forest aches to keep them.

The uneasy silence is broken by Geralt as he clears his throat, “Ciri… I know you must be disappointed in the dryads’ decision--” 

“They should have offered to help!” Ciri huffs, “It’s not fair of them to say no.”

Geralt looks supremely uncomfortable, “I recognize that you feel that way and understand where these feelings come from. But the elves will be okay. They’ve always been able to survive and move when they’re threatened.”

This is the wrong thing to say, as Ciri’s scowl drops into a glower, “They shouldn’t  _ have to,  _ Geralt. Don’t you get it? They shouldn’t have to leave their home and rebuild every time there’s even the slightest bit of danger. They should be able to have a  _ home. _ To be safe!”

He frowns slightly, “Why is this so important to you? I know you said you’d help Filavandrel, and that’s a noble cause to have, but why do you care so completely?”

Ciri grinds her teeth. Her face feels hot and her eyes are stinging with angry tears and she just wants to let out all of the building pressure that’s been blinding her for so long. She wants to scream at the sky and throw herself on the ground as hurdle after hurdle builds in front of her. 

“Because it’s not  _ fair, _ Geralt. Surely you understand that?”

“I do. Of course I do, Ciri. But things in life are rarely fair and you know this, so what’s the real reason?”

Her fingers tighten on the reins in her hands as she tries to take a deep breath to calm herself down. It chokes in her throat and she drops her head back to glare at the sky. “Because I’m part of a prophecy of peace for the elves.”

Geralt freezes, golden eyes wide as he looks at her before groaning loudly.

“ _ Fuck.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 7 of Scarlet Gladiolus! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


End file.
